You can't teach an Old Dog new tricks
by DevonLoch
Summary: "In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate." Isaac Asimov. MW continued. The world is still in shock, following the events of MW3. With Makarov dead, a power vacuum ensues. And the most unlikely of people are finding themselves back in the melee, and building new alliances and friendships to take on a new threat. M for language. Primary Soap POV.
1. It's always Darkest before Dawn

A/N: Hey everyone, it's been a while since I've been back in the saddle. I hit a pay streak with my creative writing when I started this, and have just been along for the ride since. Looking for critiques and suggestions as the story develops.

Tried to smooth it out, but most of this was written between 1200-0230 hrs during a work week.

* * *

 **Prologue: It's always Darkest before Dawn**

Dying would have been easier.

Instead, I found myself reliving a life I once had. Over and over. Their faces –distorted, tormented…monstrous. Iron dragons the breathed fire and smoke. The earth lurching beneath my feet into a lightless black pit. Every time I fell, I relived the impact. I felt acid and lightning course through my veins. Howling, screaming, their faces…nothing but an open gaping wound with gnashing teeth. It's almost always cold. There's a pounding in my skull, and I feel like I'm choking, I can't breath, no matter how hard I try to pull that awful something from my throat. Click. Click. Click. Click. It hurts, it's so damn loud it hurts!

Then there was that _warmth_. It's high pitched, but it's soft, like a chime. And it smells of sunshine. Sometimes, when it's the darkest, I hear that sound. It stabs me in the hand and drags me back, along with those horrid faces, muttering, chattering.

 _Stand by…_

 _Stand by…_

It never got easier. I wouldn't say I ever got used to it either. It was the same death gripping fear every time. On loop. On endless loop. Over and over. Each time, I tried to fight the monsters, but it never worked, it never stopped them. Then I ran, but they were around every turn. Then finally, I grew tired of running. I couldn't anymore. No matter what way I turned, everything bled into one another. There's blood on my hands, and I can't wipe it clean. I just want the nightmare to end. I have nothing else left to give. The tank's empty. I close my eyes, I feel like I'm falling again, backwards, down, but this time it's different. It feels finite.

I feel the sharp pain in my hand, and the lightning and acid burn through my veins. This is it. I can finally rest.

* * *

A/N: Yeah imagine some Jacob's Ladder shit there. It's not quite supposed to make sense. I do promise, things will pick up in the upcoming chapters. Also, I'm a bit peeved this format takes away double spacing after a "."


	2. In my restless dreams

A/N: A does of reality to the comatose conscious, when the body and mind are so disconnected from one another and so much time has passed. " _In my restless dreams, I see that town…"_

* * *

 **Ch1: In my restless dreams…**

White. Everything is white. Until something flitters by, back and forth, back and forth. No rhythm. A shade, flickering like rising smoke. I feel compelled to touch it.

I can't move my arm, or the other. It bites, and holds me fast. Just like my neck. No matter how hard I try, there's no control. I'm choking, only this time its worse, its fire and needles, my whole mouth is painfully dry. A panicked noise emanates from a box above my head. I hear more noise from far away and its getting closer. This is worse than the hellish dreams, this time, I can't do anything, I'm completely powerless. I'm awake.

"John. John. Listen to me, listen to me." The voice is stern, unwavering, and accompanied by a pale face, then another. I don't know this face, but I know the voice.

"John I need you to calm down and listen to me. Just breathe. Breathe." They're squeezing my hand.

"Anna, draw up the diazepam."

The soldier in me wanted to obey orders. The survivor in me wanted to know who the hell Anna was, and the fuck was diazepam.

'Anna' returns, and for some reason everything is feeling numb and slow. I close my eyes, trying to sort out each of the sounds while the voices talk among themselves. I find myself breathing again, even through clenched teeth. The voices soon fade and everything is quiet again. I feel something brush over my face, and something squeeze my hand again. I squeeze back. God it fucking hurts.

I don't know how long I'm lying like this, but I finally feel… _functional_ in a sense. I force my eyes open, back at the white vastness. I finally see the first recognizable thing through all of this nightmare –my damn nose.

Amazing to think, we take something so simple for granted.

Each blink I take is so tiring, like a ton of sand has been poured over my whole body. I take a moment longer to focus on my surroundings. I see the outline of the foot of the bed, I can see the vast white blanket covering my body. I go to move my left arm, where I felt the hand squeezing mine, and hear metallic clatter. I want it off. **NOW**. Like yesterday.

"John, take it easy. I need you to trust me."

Trust. How could I trust what I didn't know? There was only so much blind faith a solider could withstand before he questioned where the orders were coming from. A dog can only be beat so many times before he bites back.

I want to say something, but it only manifests itself as a grunt. It's frustrating. Despite this warm numb feeling, I feel a twinge of anger rising. All I can manage is a heavy sigh. Even doing that hurts too.

"I know, it's frustrating. Hopefully we'll be getting that collar off of you by the end of the week."

My eyes wander toward the sound of the voice. This time I can make out the face clearer than I had before. Yellowish hair, dark eyes. A small nose. A grey shirt, shapeless, loose. An earnest look. Female. We stare at one another for what seems like forever.

"Uff." It sounds foreign, pitiful. Like a sick animal about to die. I pull with my other arm, eliciting a metallic rattle.

"Ey wont, itf uff." I felt like I was out of fucking breath. Who knew four words could be so strenuous?

"We had to restrain you while you were in a coma. You were shouting and ripping everything out." There's a feather light brush against my knuckles, and slowly the bite around my wrist loses its hard, flat teeth. One by one I can articulate my fingers. Steel rods jouncing down the length of my forearm. This small freedom never felt so good.

She leans across and undoes the next restraint, settling my arm along my side. It's unsettlingly numb. I feel the coldness where her fingers left, and nothing more.

"You've been out of it for a while. We nearly lost you several times." The female continued, her words, carefully paced. The cadence makes it clear.

"You really are a fighter John."

There was so much I wanted to ask. I needed to know. And why did she keep calling me John? It felt kind of right, but it felt kind of wrong too.

"I'm going to get you something to get you started." She touches my shoulder before she leaves. Leaving me in this white room, where the flat smoke wisps across the ceiling, cut by bars of flaxen light. I turn my head as far as I can, as far as I dare, to the distant wall where the light is the brightest. The window is closed, but the vent is on, the curtains fluttering under the slight breeze, the shadows shifting above.

* * *

A/N: Tired to research what it was like for people coming out of long term comas to write this. I wanted the fragmented feeling, the sensation of waking up in middle of a car accident.


	3. Legend

A/N: This is where we get more inside Soap's state of mind. I hope I've caught his personality in the narrative.

I've never had to wear a neck brace, but I know it's extremely debilitating to wear one, hence the impeded speech. Shout out to Was-In-A-Coma for background experience.

* * *

 **Ch2: Legend**

After sleeping for so long, you lose the perception/ concept of 'night' and 'day.' Your body goes on get accustomed to a routine, running on its own schedule. I don't remember falling asleep, but when I woke up, everything was painfully clear. My room has a strange amber glow that barely provides any visibility, the edges of the ceiling backlit with some sort of ambient light. The light directly above my bed is obnoxiously harsh.

The female in grey was gone, but in her place she had left a small plastic cup with a straw peeking out. I curled my left hand into a fist, feeling every muscle respond with intense pain. It meant I was still alive. They had left the restraints off, and for that I was thankful too. I wanted up, and I wanted out, but I knew it wouldn't be something so simple. Too many wires and tubes seemed to run from every other direction from under the blankets. My mouth was still dry, and the damn cup of water looked mighty tempting.

I reached toward the steel tube railing, balling the sheet in my fist as it crawled along the bed. I let my fingers walk up the length of the railing, the metal cold but smooth, like the barrel of a gun. Just a little more, and I feel my hand enclose around the frame.

The cup sits on a small stand that hovers over the edge of my confines, alone, a watchtower surveying my every move. I lift my arm, feeling the gravity of the world pulling it back down and my fingers bumping clumsily at the smooth edge. The stand is jostled, rolling backwards, further away.

It hurt so goddamn much, like molten iron was being pumped through my arm. Somewhere inside, a caged beast raged, and the stand went reeling backwards, the tiny plastic cup bobbling as the water splashed about.

Now I was screwed, and inexplicitly exhausted. As my hand fell back at my side, I felt something hard under it. Small, hard edges, square corners, and smooth except for the raised disk the flexed easily in my grip. Reminded me of a detonator.

It must have worked like one too, because in no time someone dressed in grey was stepping through the door. They paused before making the approached, carting the stand closer to the bed.

"How are feeling Mr. MacTavish?"

The question seemed ludicrous. I had urge to punch this guy's face in.

"Itf ffuckin hurts." I growl, barely recognizing my own voice, but the words sounding less retarded and more threatening. The grey figure steps into the light. It's not that Anna person, and it's not the other female either. It's a middle aged guy, dark hair, grayish eyes and fair skin. He grabs something from the wall over my head, just out of my line of sight and tinkers here and there. Adjusts a small knob that pinches the IV line. The pain starts to ebb, a little more with each drip, and I can feel myself breathing a little easier, except for this bulky collar enclosed around my face and neck. The thought of another restraint irritates me.

"We'll do everything to help accommodate you."

I hear the pen scribing against paper and that corky style clipboard. My head starts to feel foggy, like swimming under water. I lay in silence as the guy continues his work, formulating my thoughts as I feel myself being pulled under.

"Whuft ist tuhday?" I don't know how long I've been out. I don't know where I am. Right now, I'm not even quite sure who I am. All I know is that it's dark out, and I can't make out the thin bars on the clock dial.

"Today is Saturday, the17th of December, 2016."

Great. A date. Just numbers. Because I have no recollection of how much time has passed since…since, I was whoever I was before.

I close my eyes and repeat the date over in my mind, committing it to memory. Useless information as of now, but when this all this shit finally comes together, it'll make sense. Collecting intel, gathering the puzzle pieces. All I do is listen now, and I can still hear him in the room.

"Whuft toim ist ift?"

"It's 0234 hours."

It's early, and it's late all at once. My body feels tired, but my mind is reeling. I'm a prisoner to my own body. I force my eyes open and squint at the hazy clock face, transposing the shapes with the information.

"Can I help you with anything else?" The guy in grey asks. I give a half hearted wave to decline. Just as he's leaving something jumps to mind.

"Waih." I barked. Thankfully, he stopped, pausing to look back.

"Who emh I?"

I make out a smile on his face.

"You're John MacTavish. You're a legend. A _hero_." And with that, he disappears into the pearly gates that define the border of my room.

John.

John.

 _John MacTavish._

I mull over that information too. Little pieces. All falling into place in the big picture.

Something itches down my neck, under that damn plastic vice. Warm, slow moving, torturous. I don't have the strength even scratch at it. There's an uncontrollable heave in my chest, like a truck engine struggling to turn over, shuddering. I can't stop it from happening. It starts to feel damp where the brace in pressed under my chin.

Why am I crying?

* * *

A/N: The struggle is real. John is lapsing between relearning about the world around him, and the memories of a forgotten life.


	4. Day 1, Stay with me son

A/N: Things should start to pick up here. Reality, morphine, and PT.

* * *

 **Ch3: Day 1, Stay with me son**

I return to the only life I know that night. The nightmares. This time I'm crawling through sand. A black knife twists out of my chest, I can feel the serrated edge sawing against my ribs. It's a strange feeling, having a knife –or for that matter, any foreign object that doesn't belong- in your body. It's invasive, in a way you can only experience and not describe. The sand gets coarser, turning to glass, but I keep dragging myself, I need to get over there. I don't know why but I know I NEED to be there. The shards cut every inch of me open, a swath of blood mopping across the ground behind me. I don't care. I need to be there. Somebody needs my help.

The dark knoll on the horizon gets closer. I dig deeper, push harder. There's a thundering in my head, crashing like boulders in the ocean. One. Two. Three. Four… they keep falling. That dark knoll writhes, it's alive, a monster, crushing in a skull. It collapses in like a soft melon. I scream and yell, and the black monster twists its head around. Embers smolder where its eyes should be. It makes a sound, like twisting steel, deafening above all else. It starts to lumber toward me, the sand swirling up in its wake. It's only seconds before it'll be on me.

Reality greets me like a slap in the face. I'm suddenly so aware of everything –all at once. The air is so cold it's like inhaling clusters of ice. Every pin and plate fastened to my bones. Every fissure and fracture, splinter by splinter. Every inch of me that had been poked and prodded. This god damn brace lodged under my goddamn chin.

I can hear myself breathing over everything else, shallow, rapid, the adrenaline dump giving me tremors. They're not bad, but I can feel the buzzy shaking all the way down to my toes. I'm anxious, edgy. I start to fumble around for that tiny detonator but it's lost somewhere in the sheets. Before I can find it, a person dressed in grey walks in, towing a cart behind them.

"Good morning John." It's the female with the yellowish hair and dark eyes. She sounds happy. The cart looks piled to the brim with a whole assortment of tools

"I hope you slept well." She's hovering over me now, her eyes darting back and forth, making a quick assessment. It's only now I realize her eyes aren't brown –they're kind of slate grey.

I roll my eyes, feeling my blood pressure rise a little. What a ridiculous statement.

But she laughs, and the humanness of her emotion catches me off guard. It tends to happen when you learn to be a callous asshole.

"Don't _**sass**_ me. I've dealt with your kind before." She smiles before she returns to harassing me, pulling the covers down my chest. Her face becomes serious as she gives me a once over. A laminated card is clipped from the pocket of her scrubs, and I try to make out the words but she moves too fast.

Satisfied, she makes her way lower. I draw the line there, and make a grab for her wrist before she can rob me of what dignity I have left. She halts her examination long enough to acknowledge that I've got a lot more to say to her than just an eye roll.

"There's nothing here I haven't seen before. In fact, I've probably seen more of you in the past few months than you've seen yourself in the past 5 years." She pulls from my grip like it was a wet towel, and I feel the covers roll back over my legs. Her hands shouldn't be there, and my breath catches in my throat.

Yep, there goes my dignity.

"And there, we're done!" She rolls the sheet back over almost as quickly as she had taken it off, tossing a few items in the waste bin. I can hear the latex gloves peel off with a snap.

"All goes well and you'll be one step closer to taking a piss by yourself."

A damn catheter –maybe I was better off not knowing what she was doing. Let the experts do their thing behind the shrouds. I ask the only question guy would after any lass has had her hands down your nether regions.

"Whufts yur naem?"

"My name's Elle. You've been in my ward since you've arrived here, back in mid October."

October, October. The guy said yesterday was December 17th. I start to count out the days while Elle continues her work in silence. About 64 days. 9 weeks. 9 weeks I've been away from the world and I don't remember a thing.

"Take my hands. I'm going to sit you up." It's like a slow dance, awkward, but she inclines the bed and helps reposition me. Finally I feel like I regain some mobility in my neck. Without me having to ask, she starts to loosen the neck brace, but only enough so I can actually stretch my jaw.

"Thanks." For the first time my words feel normal, save for the horrible cotton mouth. I swear my tongue is sandpaper. She lifts a plastic cup to my face, equip with the periscope straw. My reflexes are slow, but I manage to reach from under to take the beverage out of her hand. I wasn't about to be patronized any more than I had in the past 10 minutes.

"You think you got this?"

I shoot her with what I hope was a death glare. It deflects clean off of her.

"I think I've been through worse."

"I know you have. I'm sure you've got a lot of questions going on through your head right now, and I want you to know we're here to help answer them – _when you're ready for it_."

I only heard half of the last part because I was so focused on not dropping this cup of water, which was feeling more like a brick in my hand with the passing seconds. I'm shaking and I can't control it. Since when did I become so weak? Was it always like this? Elle cups a hand under mine to help steady.

Water never tasted so good. It wasn't even the taste, it was simply the sensation. Refreshing. And I felt like I couldn't get enough. Elle was kind enough to offer a refill. When I went for a third, she withheld the cup and placed it out of reach.

"Easy there. Small sips. You don't want to shock your body."

On the contrary, I don't think much of anything could surprise this body after everything it's been through. At this rate, I'd probably go into shock from this powerless lifestyle I was currently stuck in compared to reliving the last conscious hour of my past life that put me here in the first place. She's pulling on another pair of gloves and opens up a square package into a metal tray that's sitting on top of the cart.

"Where am I?"

"You are at the _Steinn Aflinn_ ," the last two words came out so fluently, I had almost disregarded the undertones of an accent. It was a start. Barely Day 2 and my dormant instincts were coming back. Elle knew I wasn't quite following, perhaps it was the dumb look on my face. She starts wiping some cold against a knot under my collar bone, just out of my peripherals. It stinks of alcohol and chemicals.

"Welcome to Iceland John."

Iceland? What the **fuck** was in Iceland?

"You were killed in action. At least, that's what everyone believes. You have a lot friends -in all the right places. That's how you ended up here."

Hm. Maybe that was the point then...

I feel a small pinch as she works the area over.

"Consider yourself a _ghost_ John."

I started to feel nauseous. And cold. Washy. Lightheaded. There's a muffled clicking sound in the distance. Elle's looking at me and waving a hand over her head. The clicking is getting louder, and crisper. I squeeze me eyes shut, fighting the fading feeling. Everything gets quiet, except for that clicking.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. It must be the clock on the far end of the room.

Or the snap of fingers. Something is squeezing my hand.

 _'C'mon, stay with me son!'_

"Stay with me John."

Finally I can breath. As if someone hit the play button.

"John?"

"I'm fine." The lie is bold faced. When I force my eyes open, Elle is poised. She doesn't look scared, but determined. Focused. I've seen that expression somewhere before.

"I find it hard to believe the sight of blood bothers you." She carefully goes back to work, scarcely breaking eye contact. I glance down to try to get a view of what she's doing.

"It never has." I observe for a little longer.

"What are you doing." It's more of an order than a question.

"Flushing your central venous port. With your cognitive functional the rebound, we'll want to be working on your motor skills next. It's not your first time with rehab if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah." I try to sound convincing but it falls flat. I'll take her word on it. Right now she knows more about what the hell is going on around here. Instead I try to focus on what she's doing.

"We'll be pulling this out in no time."

"That's a good thing?" She's tending to the area again.

"It's a good start. You've got a long road ahead of you."

"Why do I have wear this thing?" I make reference to the bulky collar brace.

"We've been worried about the swelling in some of your cervical vertebrae. We were on the right track until a few mishaps."

"Mishaps, huh?"

Elle starts adjust some of the IV lines like the guy had last night.

"For someone so near death as many times as you, you always put up a fight. Every time we thought you were in the clear, you'd be up, screaming and yelling, ripping everything out and end up on the floor. Even under heavy sedation. Since the restraints, this is the most stable we've had you in the past few weeks." Elle grabs my hand again, her thumb running along my knuckles. 1, 2, 3, 4 and back. Her mouth presses into some sort of half smile.

"How's the pain?"

"Could use a little more." It's an all encompassing feeling of shit. A constant, but I convince myself it's better than being able to feel nothing at all. Except my right hand. The fact I've been barely able to will any movement out of is a growing concern.

"I'll get you settled back in when we're done here."

"We're _not_ done?"

"You're morning has just begun, my friend. I know it's going to feel a little overwhelming at first, but the longer you stay in this bed on the morphine, the longer you'll be stuck in here. I'm here to get you back up on your feet, quite literally."

Her words sounded foreboding. She grabs a small tool from the tray, and makes her way to the end of my bed.

"Are you ticklish?"

I attempt at a shrug, "I couldn't tell you."

"I'm going to conduct a neurological examination of your foot, then your legs. This will be done with a series of pin pricks and push-pull exercises." Elle rolls back the sheet again, grabbing a foot _this_ time. I feel her thumbs work through my arch. For the first time in my life I finally take notice of what a military career and avid sport has done to my toes –and it's not pretty.

"Try not to kick me."

By mid morning Elle's conducted a battery of tests to determine my baseline capacity, and I've been convinced my name is John MacTavish. I'll take it for now. It's better than being a John Doe. My worst fear is confirmed when she tells me there's nerve damage throughout my right arm. By Noon I'm dining on ice chips and granted TV privileges before I'm put through the gauntlet again. Phase II involves a formal introduction to 'Anna' and 'Jakob' –the guy who dropped in when I found that nifty detonator switch. When I'm relinquished back to my bed I'm within an inch of my life from the pain. It's debilitating. Blinding. I remember crying. Anger. Fear. Frustration. I don't know, pick one. The morphine doesn't hit hard or fast enough. Was it this bad last time? I wish I knew.

Sleep never came. It's the slathering of exhaustion in its rawest form that finally takes me under. I don't even dream, which is a welcomed relief.

* * *

A/N: A big jump in size. Hope you enjoyed. Please review and critique, any advice or ideas is appreciated.


	5. FNJ 2-0

A/N: I wanted to break this chapter up, but it needed to go together. Making headway with a little R&R.

* * *

 **Ch4: FNJ 2.0**

It starts all over again. Elle's got a game plan and gets me up on my feet in the morning with the assistance of Jakob and Anna. My reflexes might be slow, parts of me crippled, but I wasn't going to let it stop me.

It's by 1500 on Day 2 of my regiment I start to truly grasp how weak I really am. Every other word is a profanity, and I'm adamantly convinced it was the morphine talking this morning. I pass on the entertainment. I feel like I'm dying. I just want to be left alone. Elle gives me the space and minimizes her visits that evening. I brace for impact when I wake up and greet Day 3 with full throttled hostility. It only goes downhill from there. By nightfall they're back at it with the diazepam to curb my attitude.

On Day 4 after my morning routine I find out diazepam is the technical name for valium, and I get a small does of it for breakfast along with the ice chips. The rest of the day slips by - **not** easier- but more tolerable with the coercion of the drugs. I wake up 0148 hrs of Day 5 and contemplate murder so I can make my escape. I hardly know life outside the walls of my room and the dreadful corridor I've decided to dub "The Gulag" where they force me to walk. Flying blind hasn't stopped me before, and I know I'll be able to adapt. I trust in myself that much. I'm finished laying out the details before allowing myself any rest. I need to act first thing while my mind is still sharp before they get the chance to drug me.

I'm woken up by the sound of Elle's mellowed voice. When did I let myself fall asleep? Did I even sleep? I don't remember dreaming at all.

"Good morning John."

"Mornin Elle." I grumbled, keeping my eyes closed and my jaw clenched. She sounds different. They've already cut back on the morphine. The effects of it has been hitting me in passing waves, some more intense than others. I know she heard the resentment in my voice because she doesn't try to prompt a conversation out of me. I feel her grab my hand though, her thumb counting over my knuckles, back and forth, a small squeeze. This is how my morning always starts.

"I promise I'm not here to torment you today. You've made some amazing progress these past few days. I want you to know I'm proud of you John."

Progress? I didn't realize nearly wiping out on the floor counted as progress. I could hardly balance myself without holding on to someone or the wall.

I open my eyes and Operation Holocaust is immediately aborted. I wonder if she's already put the valium into my IV line that quick without me noticing. She's giving me a sympathetic look, but there's something more going on there. Exhaustion. It's the first sign of weakness I've seen in her.

"Are you going to be cranky today?"

"Might be."

Elle gives me a pensive smile, and I return something like it in return. She's still holding my hand. That's when I realize I'm squeezing hers back.

"Well," she draws the first word out, winding up for the pitch, "I was thinking you might enjoy a day at the spa. Give you some much needed down time after the kind of week you've been having."

The spa? I scoff, blatantly. My lack of enthusiasm comes as no surprise.

"Do I _strike_ you as _one of those_ kinds of fellas?" I think I hear Elle try to suppress a laugh. It's a different sound than I'm used to.

"No, but, _that hair_. It's my own fault for letting that mop of yours overgrow. Take a look for yourself." Elle digs a hand mirror out from the cart, offering it to me.

I don't even bother trying with my right hand. Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing any mirrors around this place.

It's the first time I actually get a glimpse at my own face. The mirror is too small to see everything, but enough to see my hair is shaggy and the stubble I'm sporting is a bit much. 5 days without a shave tends to do that. I'd doubt they'd trust me with a razor blade in my possession just yet –especially if they knew what I was thinking half the time. A faded line runs down the left side of my face, skipping across my brow to continue down my cheek. It's old, but now I'm curious how it got there.

"I didn't know if you wanted to keep it *really high* and tight, or, be rebellious and let it grow out. It's **your** choice now. You're at a good intermittent phase to decide. But first…"

Elle pulls the mirror out of my hand.

"How about we start off with getting a few scans of your neck and see if we can't get you out of that brace?"

* * *

Elle makes good on her promise. She gets me down to the wing where the CT scanner is housed. A mature woman named Signy runs the show down there and has already prepped the room, and the two of them get straight to business. The hardest part is remaining absolutely still. Elle warns me if I fidget it degrades the image quality. Artifacts or some bullshit technical term. But she's good at her job and gets it done the first time. And after what feels like an eternity of sitting in exam room she returns with Signy.

"Good news John, you are being freed from your shackles today. This definitely calls for celebration."

Signys' peeling apart the brace, and when it's finally off, I feel like my head is still craned awkwardly like a giraffe. I can breathe normally. Swallow. Feel the pulse of my artery. A few range-of-motion and sensory tests later and my chart gets checked off. I was ready to call it a day there. Elle assures me I'll enjoy whatever else she has in store.

And she's not wrong.

It's a lot of 'firsts' for one day. I regain some dignity and take a piss, a real piss with minimal supervision. An actual shower, with all the hot water you could ask for. More comfortable clothes. A clean shave, complete with a hot towel. Turns out Elle's not half bad with a razor. Now it's onto the unsat haircut.

"Have you decided what you wanted?"

We're both staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror.

"No." I drag my fingers through my hair. I feel like it's the most I've probably had in years, though I can't be sure. I decide I don't like it. I can see Elle watching me closely from the corner of my eye.

"Take it off." I order.

"High and tight it is."

I tune into the electronic hum of the clippers while Elle goes to work. She's humming something to herself. It's catchy. Classy. Timeless. I can't place it. It puts a small swing in her hips. The familiarity of the act gives me feeling of normalcy.

"You want me to take a little more off?"

I inspect her work by visual and feel.

"Any tighter and I won't have anything left." But I like it. There's nothing quite refreshing like a new cut. I can't stop touching it, just like my face. I almost recognize myself. Maybe even look a bit like a 'John MacTavish' should. Elle's brushing my neck down with a warm towel.

"Who knew there was such a handsome man under all that scruff and attitude?"

Her comment catches me off guard, and I feel a little flustered. I cock an eyebrow at my reflection so she can see.

"That's the nicest thing you've said to me." I keep a straight face in an attempt to recover from the remark, looking offended even.

"Don't lie John. I say nice things to you _all_ the time." And she's all smiles. She doesn't look as tired as she was this morning either. Like she's found a second wind.

Elle's hands are on my shoulders, moving in subtle ways that are utmost sensational. It feels good after being stuck in that damned restraint for so many days. The muscles in my neck, back and shoulders are tense. Just as she finds the sweet spot she stops.

"We can resume this later. I'm not quite finished with you yet."

* * *

My room gets an upgrade, something with a view. This hospital must be off the beaten path because I don't see many roads marking the landscape outside my window.

"Tell me John, are you feeling hungry?"

Come to think of it, I never quite felt hungry in the normal sense. Food hadn't really become a focus as much as managing the pain had. There had been a few times the thought of eating had occurred to me, mostly when I was lying awake at night bored out of my mind, but it never formulated past there.

Elle sets a tray in front of me –a cup of water, and a bowl of some clearish liquid. I drop the spoon in the bowl and give it stir, noting the thin consistency while feeling the warm vapors hit my face.

"Can't say for sure. What's in it?" Cause it sure looks like nothing.

"It's a basic stock. We'll be weaning you off the TNP line and getting you back to eating actual food. We need to start with the basics to re-acclimate your body."

I give her a skeptical look and paw through the liquid a little more.

"Don't try to force yourself. I'll be by later to check in. If you need anything, you know what to do."

She winks at me before she leaves. I dig around for the television remote and find it stuffed between the bed and the metal safety railing. I scroll through the channels until I find some sort of nature program. I don't understand a word of the dialect, but I know a tiger stalking through the grass when I see one. After getting sidetracked for a few minutes more, I look down back at the task at hand. Elle had seemed so enthusiastic about it. Never in my life did eating something feel so daunting.

I give it a taste. It has no distinct smell, and taste flat. It's not terrible either, and I figure I'd make an effort at least. There's no way I'm getting out of this place without making forward progress –or in a body bag- and this happened to be one of the steps along the way.

I get about 2/3's the way through and feel….full, maybe even a bit nauseas. And I'm pretty sure it's not because the big cat is disemboweling some small animal. I take a few sips of the water and pick up on a distinct, sharp taste. Acrid. Crisp. It awakens my senses.

I push the tray out of the way and recline in my new bed, blowing out a huge sigh. My fingers start fidgeting with the port stuck under my collarbone, then to the chain around my neck. I fish it out and study the circular medallion attached on the end. I've felt it there all along but I've never really taken a moment to examine it closely. The edges were rounded and smooth from wear, the polished surface battered and scratched, endured from being in the field. I hold it out and read the inscription;

O POS  
2073521  
JOHN  
MacTAVISH  
ARMY  
RC

Satisfied, I close my fist around it, rubbing the tag between my thumb and index while I cross exam the information with my medical bracelet. No matter where you go, there's always a number attached. It struck me funny that I had only one tag though. Wasn't there supposed to be another?

Looking at the dog tag made me feel a bit –nostalgic. A sense of belonging, comradery, and most of all –purpose. Right now, I was stuck in a paradox. My goal as of now was to get better, to get stronger. Enough where I can take care of myself and get out of this place.

…And then what?

Elle's words came back to haunt me, _'Consider yourself a ghost.'_

The official report apparently said I was K.I.A. I'm supposed to be dead. Six foot under in some shithole no doubt. The paper works trails off from there, as did whatever ties to my old life –not that I had a recollection of those at the moment. Perhaps with a little time my memories could amount to something useful. I wouldn't even know what to do with myself in the outside world. Go back and join the fight? Was the war still raging on out there?

Who am I kidding? They'll never let me out of their sight. I'm a high profile legend with a burn notice. You just don't walk away from that kind of life. Whoever wanted you dead was going to make sure you stayed that way. They don't leave loose ends unattended. I'm not talking phony funeral arrangements with smoke and mirrors. More like an actual corpse with a convincing enough resemblance passed off and probably some doctored tissue samples with altered dental record delivered to some official's doorstep as proof.

Guaranteed someone's already bought and paid for my life. Now that was a sobering thought.

Funny thing is, I don't like to leave loose ends either. Less than 12 hours ago I was contemplating murdering my way out of this joint. I took my shit seriously.

I let myself brood for a bit longer. All these thoughts of vengeance were getting me riled up. Could sure use a little bit of that Valium right about now.

I take another deep breath to focus myself. That tactical pause they taught you back in the recruit days when things were getting too hot. Too bad my busted ribs cut the moment short. After a little bit of effort, tossing and turning, I finally find myself settling back in with the TV. The sun feels good to bask in, and the activity in my brain starts to shut down. I'm able to get myself to where I can defrag my mind and let it flat line. I never knew how much I could sleep in one day.

When I wake up, my room's dark, save for the last fading light outside. The television is still on, but the volume is so low it's inaudible. I know that's not how I left it. With a good hard rub, I shake the sleep from my eyes as they adjust to the low light. The remote has been moved to the bedside stand, along with something else. I sit up and let the queasy feeling wash over me and a harsh chill run down my spine. I know it's because I haven't had the morphine in several hours. Vague memories of withdrawal crawl around in the back of my mind –maybe that's where this pounding headache has started.

I reach over and grab the second item off the table and drag it into my lap. I might have full mobility in my left hand, but my strength isn't up to par. A small blue bow marks the finishing point of the simple wrapping. It's a leather bound journal with a new pen across the front. The color is a rich brown, the material soft, edges gilded, pages blank. The pen is generic, but still nice. Fine tip, black ink, some heft and thick in size. The book is held closed by a small brass button, which is easy enough for me to undo.

Inside on the cover page a small handwritten note is tucked away:

' _A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step'_

 _In this case, a page. Everyday is a second chance, John._

No doubt Elle's work. The gift is thoughtful, as it is nice. I crack the book open and run my palm down the open spine, splaying the pages apart. But there's one striking flaw. No matter how hard I try, I can't secure a grip with my right hand. Not one that I could successfully write with. The harder I try, the worse my hold on the pen feels. I'm about ready to throw it across the room. I drop the pen in my lap and fall back in bed, counting back from 10 slowly. When I finish the countdown, I sit up with a sigh. The page has rolled back to where Elle's note sits. I reread it. This is exactly what she meant.

This time, I take the pen up in my left hand, flip back to the first fresh page, and start there. I know I've done this before, and vaguely recall I used to keep a black book with me at all times. It's gone now. Kind of mad because it probably had a lot of important information about my past inside. Oh well, no use getting upset. What's done is done. Time to start with a fucking new journal. 2.0.

* * *

A/N: If you're enjoying please at least follow or fav so I get an idea how many of you are out there. Reviews would be appreciated too. Thanks! :D


	6. Leftovers

A/N: For everything that goes up, must come down. A little more personalities developing here. I'm not a nurse, I try not to get too technical with the medical stuff, but enough so it's convincing. It's supposed to help set the state of mind when you go from being a BAMF to taking painkillers like their candy and PTSD.

* * *

 **Ch5: Leftovers**

I think both Elle and I are equally startled when she enters my room when it's still dark out.

"Was someone up burning the midnight oil?" she asks, already wearing a smile.

"What are you doing here?" I snap. I feel a little annoyed, probably because I'm under the full effects of withdrawal and it's a home run hit. Part of me wants to sleep but I'm too wired, my mind's racing over nonsense.

Elle must see the look of confusion on my face.

"It's seven o'clock John." She blinks as me, letting the information sink in. "In the morning."

I'm finally figuring out why my schedule is all messed up. I had thought Elle was antagonizing me with the pre-dawn poking and prodding, but in fact, the sun didn't really rise until almost 1130hrs. When the realization shows up on my face, Elle smiles again and takes my hand. I'm aware of just how small her hands actually are.

"I'm all fucked up." I admit with a mumble. More like completely FUBAR.

Elle gives a squeeze before she lets go, and gets about to her work.

"How are you feeling today John?"

"Absolute shit."

Elle's checking one of the monitors and jots down information on my chart. She feels my forehead with the back of her hand, scrutinizing every inch of my face. She looks concerned, but not overly alarmed.

"Your temp's a little up." It sounds more like she's talking to herself.

"You feel up for a light session today?"

"Honestly?" I grumble.

"Honestly." Elle croons, running her hand through my hair. It feels good when someone else does it for you.

I'm feeling torn between annoyance and self loathing, and restless anxiety. I want to be left alone, but I don't want to be alone.

"It'll be short and relatively easy. Think of it as a stretch day."

Elle keeps stroking my hair for the next few minutes. It distracts from the pounding in my head. When she stops, I realize she's still awaiting a response.

"Sure."

"That's the answer I like to hear." She's holding back a chipper smile, containing her enthusiasm so she doesn't blow me out of the water.

We go through the morning routine like any other, testing different reflexes and drawing up blood samples. Elle gives me a bump on the morphine going into the session. Today Jakob accompanies her to provide the brunt work, allowing for deeper stretches. Elle says part of it is conditioning, and gets me up on a stationary bike. Light work, but easy work as the muscle memory comes back. The hardest part was committing to the first revolution, gauging the pain. While Elle and Jakob are putting me through my paces, I finally see another lost soul like myself utilizing the PT room with a nurse I haven't met yet. He's built like a brick shit house but there's a massive adhesive bandage covering the top area of his right knee. When he notices me he gives a friendly nod in my direction, and I acknowledge him back. I wonder what his story is.

By the end of it all, I'm feeling beat, but good. Like I've accomplished a lot. I notice Elle's been keeping a particularly close watch on me today as well. Frowning a lot more than usual. The hot shower afterward feels amazing. And I'm feeling _maybe_ a little bit like my "old self." Something about a good stint of cardio and deep tissue stretch awakens my reflexes. My irritability is more palatable for a friendly spar. I feel confident.

Back at my room Elle gets me set up in my chair with my book and has lunch on the way. She wheels over the tall metal stand and sets up a ringer into the PICC line in my bicep. Before I ask she shoves a thermometer in my mouth.

"Keep it under your tongue." She orders.

"So serious." I mock back under my breath, feeling an icy stare fall on me. Maybe Elle thrives off of my suffering and my newfound enthusiasm is draining her.

"It might get serious here." She's measuring something out in a syringe before injecting it into the IV hanging above. I've had relatively good manners today up to this point, so I doubt its diazepam she's giving me.

I decide to wait in silence, toying with the thermometer in my mouth while I turn on the television and flip through the channels. After a minute, Elle goes to pull it out, but I bite down on and hold fast. We exchange wayward looks before I concede.

"What's with the attitude?" I snort.

"I'm not mad, I'm – **frustrated**. Just when I think we're in the clear with you…" she trails off, recapping everything and tossing the proper items in the sharps container.

"I got your blood work back. We're still fighting off that infection it seems."

No matter how clean the hospital, they were cesspools for disease. And apparently I was harboring one. You can only do so much sanitizing. Scrub so many surfaces. Autoclave so many tools. Wash your hands and change your clothes over and over.

"What's it from?" Not that it mattered much, but I was curious to know more about my physical state so I could gauge my own progress.

"Since your incident, there was a lot of trauma…a lot of hemorrhaging to your major organs. You were rushed to us after being holed up in someone's basement for a couple days. We still don't know how you survived." Elle puts her hands on her hips, her shoulders slumping.

"You were directly transferred to our ICU for a few of weeks while we attempted to stabilize your condition. It was during that time we were first detected the infection. We opted to use less harsh antibiotics while you were on the mend, but it's only been effective enough to keep it at bay."

I let the information sink in. It's really the first time Elle's talked about my injuries beyond what I knew about my existing nerve damage. I want to know more about the incident she's speaking about, what put me here in the first place but I can tell from the way she's talking that it's not up for discussion. Not yet at least.

"Well, it it's anything. I'm feeling great today." It was the truth too. Maybe it was the kick of morphine, maybe it was the good session, or maybe because I was able to get my jumbled thoughts down on paper pulling an all-nighter, I had a second wind. It seems to bring a small comfort to her, enough to give a half frown, half smirk. A 180˚smile.

"I appreciate your cooperation today John. You ready for some lunch?"

For once, the thought of food sounds exciting. It's only day 2 on the food, but today's work routine has me fired up.

"Bring it on."

* * *

It's the same bit of soup, water with lemon, but with a bonus handful of crackers. I invite Elle to stay, and start my own interrogation regarding my future recovery. It's a safe topic to tread on without asking too many questions about my past. Part way through, Elle excuses herself to grab her own lunch to join me. I'm grateful for her company, and it allows her to monitor the drip line. When she returns with her lunch, the smell hits me right where it counts, and my stomach is a mix of withdrawal nausea and absolute hunger. I can practically taste the smell.

"What is that?" I'm peering over her shoulder to get a better look inside the pyrex dish.

"It's leftovers." Elle says through a mouthful, shielding her cheek with the back of her hand. How modest.

"When can I have some of that?" Not that I doubt the hospital food was good here, but if my memory served me right, in these places it was often bland.

"Maybe in a week or so." She teases, piling up another fork.

"You make it yourself?" Dumb question, but for all I know it could have been a frozen dinner. And frankly, I wouldn't have cared.

"I did. But it's Mom's recipe for potato patties and goose."

Potatoes. I'd fucking kill for some potatoes. And red meat. There was a fire burning inside and it was going to start needing a higher octane fuel than what was being provided.

"Can I get a rain check then?" Elle's got a mouthful again but smiles coyly, holding a finger out to pause.

"Of course John. Anything for you."

I'll hold her to it. We continue our conversation on the mundane, but I hang onto every word she has to say. Continue to collect the information and paint the bigger picture with each passing day. I'll have to jot the important stuff in my journal when we're done. Elle sits with me and shows me a few simple exercises I can work on in my free if I choose until the IV finishes out. Before she leaves she asks if I want to get a fresh shave in for tomorrow morning. Amazing how fast it can grow in 24hrs. I tell her I'll have to think on it. I kick back and browse through the channels until I land on one of those American shows with subtitles underneath. Other than Elle, and a few other staff members, it's the closest I've heard to the English language, and it sounds good to my ears. The shows not half bad either – called The Wire, or something like that. When that ends I begin to surf again until I stumble onto a sports channel.

Thank god for football. Real football.

Thank.

Fucking.

God.

The longer I sit in the chair, the more I start to get uncomfortable. Feedback from pushing it this morning when I should have taking it easy. And possibly from that infection Elle was mentioning too. It's that achy flu kind of feeling, but I can't be sure if it's from the morphine running out or the fever.

By sunset, I'm a zombie. Elle comes back later with a nice drug cocktail and dinner. We sit same as last time, though I know I'm not much for conversation. It doesn't seem to bother her though, she sits with me as the next IV drains. Gets me in bed at some point. Pulls a chair close and talks to me about dogs. I can't follow the conversation, but I love the way she's running her hand through my hair. I could care about anything less.

I get decent sleep that night.


	7. Aðfangadagskvöld

A/N: Another big chapter I couldn't afford to split. We start to see more melding interactions and the building world outside of the bedroom walls, and a glimpse of what was.

* * *

 **Ch6:** _ **A** ðfangadagskvöld_

My second week starts off on a better foot than my first one. Quiet literally. Though the gains seem small, every day puts me a step closer to becoming whole. Elle want to push her focus on getting me to walk comfortably. My shattered ankle required surgery, with the addition of a few plates and bolts.

The hardest part isn't the pain. I can work through that. It's the trust. Trusting in your body to do what it needs to do when you ask of it. It doesn't help I've taken a tumble or two during my first week of rehab and readjusting to the world. Elle introduces a small set of stairs. Going up wasn't too bad. It was coming back down. The sensation of all of your weight compressing on the battered cartilage, severed tendons, and 3 newly fused bones.

It shouldn't be as bad as it could be –Elle says I'm down about 13.5 lbs from when I came in. That's what happens when you lead the sedentary lifestyle of a plant. The only reason I have half my strength is because of the intense work they've done for me here while I was in a coma –namely Elle. Apparently she's a big deal around here.

"I know you can do it John." Elle's voice cuts into my thoughts like a goddamn ray of sunshine. It warrants a death threat by non-verbal cues.

"One more." She prompts. I'm not taking it. I was mentally done and checked out 2 stair climbs ago.

When I hold fast, I see her nose twitch. I don't know if she realizes that she does it –mostly when she's trying to keep up that peppy attitude after she's been Stonewalled.

"Left leg first. Let's go." It's not a plea, it's an order. I stare her down, but she's giving me that look. A look that promises that somehow, someway, she'll find a way to make my life agonizing. Because I'm trapped here. And she serves it with a smile.

"Last set. Promise." She squeezes my shoulder. "Come on big guy."

Nothing like psyching yourself up for such a simple task. You'd think she was asking me to deactivate a [nuclear] bomb.

I brace my arms on the rails and reach down until I feel the top of the step. Elle and Jakob are both there. Not too close to make me conscious of fucking up. I rock my weight forward, wincing when my heel settles. I push myself the rest of the way through it until I feel the tendon in the back of my knee start to buckle.

"Remember to breathe John." Elle gives a soft laugh, breaking my focus.

I didn't realize I was holding it in this whole time. Or how white my knuckles were from gripping so tight.

"Follow through." The second part comes easy, almost too easy. I'm tilt my leg like a lazy horse, taking off the weight as soon as I'm down.

"That's great John!" Elle praises. She's warming up before gets up to the plate.

Great. Only 3 fucking more to go.

* * *

Day 7. I survived the stairs. And apparently their going to be a **wonderful** , **fucking** , **regular** _addition_ to my routine. I'd rather do planks for 4 hours on end. I'd rather deal with fucking **DOGS**. I don't quite know what it is that bothers me so much about the stairs. Maybe it's because I can't do a single task without having someone there watching my back. I've never felt so helpless.

Back at my room I get to enjoy _"my time."_ I'm catching up in my journal. What should have been done in a few minutes of deep thought undisturbed, is taking an ungodly amount of time, effort and concentration. Learning to rewrite with my left hand. _Legibly_. Might even be sweating a little. Doodling comes a touch easier. I'm documenting my surroundings, sketching the layout of my room, and the parts of this building I've been to. I decide to take a break and stretch my wrist. It's far more functional than its counterpart, but not without its impediments of fashionable plates, rods, and screws. I glance towards my windows, and note that it's already dark outside. It's also snowing.

* * *

Day 8

I wake up to the sound of squeaking shoes from the hallway, accompanied with a bustle of low whispered chatter. It's pitch black outside, but I can hear faint tapping against the window. Must still be snowing. I remain still and listen in. I've picked up just a handful of words of the native dialect, but it seems most of the staff here is well versed in multiple languages. And the TV is usually in English with subtitles, so I'm limited in what I can pick up. I pick out Elle's voice against the rest. She sounds energized and excited.

Woop-dee-do. I was probably going to choke on all the enthusiasm she was exuding. And she wasn't even through the door yet.

When she walks in, she's a hot mess. Her hair is in every which way and she has a frazzled look on her face, but she's still smiling the moment she sees me.

"Good morning John."

"Mornin' Elle." She grabs my hand, running her thumb across my knuckles, and it's surprisingly cold. That's when I notice her cheeks and nose are flush.

"You got something hanging there." I do nothing to hold back a gloating smirk when she looks at me, embarrassed. She pulls away and goes to the small bathroom, blowing her nose. After she's done washing her hands she comes back, laughing and sniffling.

"Thank you for that. That would have been awful." Elle never misses a beat and gets back to our morning routine, comparing charts, numbers, and visually inspecting each line.

"Is it still snowing out?"

"Yes, it is. It snowed all through the night."

She's practically beaming when she says it. Usually people dread surplus snowfall, with all the clean up and inconvenience that comes with it. It's when Elle's dropping the bedside rail I request a shave like last time, and without question she agrees. Almost too excitedly.

"Hey Elle," She stops what she's doing and gives me her full attention, leaning on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, John?"

"I want to go outside today. I've been trapped inside this place too long."

Elle serves her response with another smile.

"Anything for you John,"

I get a heartier breakfast with a few more solid items included. Oatmeal with some fruit. tea, lightly sweetened, applesauce. After that it's right to the poking, the prodding, and preliminary stretching to get me warmed up before throwing me through the gulag. I try to take in today with a better attitude, but after a set or two of stairs I'm feeling a bit irritable. Elle changes it up and moves onto some upper work. Stretches to regain mobility and movement in my neck. Resistance work on my right arm to promote strength building, muscle memory, and nerve stimulation.

It leaves me feeling frustrated despite Elle's encouragement. Maybe even worse than those stairs. I can't even express it. Without any use or function of my dominant hand, I knew my days of combat were limited, and I sure as hell wouldn't be worth much as a field officer. Or much of anything.

We break for lunch. Elle surprises me with a contraband box of food –a small portion of pierogies, and a slice turkey. I ask what's the special occasion.

"It's Christmas Eve!"

"Oh."

 _It's Christmas Eve?!_

…

 _Christmas. Fucking. Eve?!_

In my haste to keep track of everything, I had lost touch with some of the bigger details. Not that a holiday was exactly on my list of priorities. Elle salvages the conversation like a well oiled machine.

"Yes, Christmas Eve. Or as we call it, _aðfangadagskvöld_."

…

 _The fuck she just say?_

"That's a mouthful." I'm dumbstruck, I don't even have a response for that witchcraft language.

She hides a laugh, falling back in her chair with her meal cradled in her lap.

"Eat your food while it's still hot!"

We go one to talk about what her plans are for Christmas. It sounds like it will be well spent with her family. Her brother's hosting at his place this year, though Elle will be providing support with the cooking. She actually has the holiday off tomorrow.

After lunch, Elle passes me off to Jakob for cardio when she gets paged for a call. Jakob's a cool guy, a young man of few words, but he's smart. Sharp. Deceptively strong. You never figure a nurse would be strong, but then again, they spend all day lifting dead weight and the assisting the feeble. I pry into his life a little and ask the basics. He pitches back and we get a little guy chat in. Share some laughs. It's a welcomed change of pace from Elle's soprano chatter.

He's Elle protégé. And I can see why too. He's patient, diligent, methodical in his approach. A positive outlook, but he doesn't allow it to cloud his judgment. Confident, but still second guessing himself in certain fields. Book smart, but a work in progress on his practical field work. He listens. Vaguely reminds me of someone I once met before. He's been under her mentor for over two years and is working toward finishing up his schooling.

By the time he turns me over to Elle, I'm physically spent but feeling better than last time. After a good hot shower and the promised shave, I get another round of contraband home cooking with Elle's company. As the dinner conservation winds down, Elle pops the question.

"You still feeling up for an adventure?" she asks, referring to my earlier request.

"Do you even have to ask?"

It takes a little bit to gear up for the elements. Elle's able to scrounge up some extra items they've collected over the years. She's decked out in a full parka, tall boots and knit beanie. Since it's a bit of a walk out to the courtyards she insists on wheeling me over there. I blatantly tell her no. I'm determined to walk there on my own. I'm tired of not being able to do anything on my own.

She's not kidding when says it's a jaunt, but the walk there is rather nice. _Steinn Aflinn_ bears obvious heavy French influence in its architecture –both decedent and modest. I only catch part of one of the main lobby in passing, with a recessed glass atrium. We bear in the opposite direction of the front lobby and eventually arrive at another atrium –a long hall of glass that's partially encased by the snowfall. The courtyard outside is exclusively dark, the only visible light coming from lampposts that line the walkways and from the windows of other buildings that remain unseen in the night.

Elle gets the door and keeps a steady hand on my back when we step outside. There's a little wind that produces small skirls of snow over the piled banks and snow drifts. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of the night. The air is cold, clean, and crisp, instantly freezing anything in my airways. Actually burns in a good way. We walk side by side down the shoveled path, half filled in by the drifts until we reach the edge of the penumbra from the atrium's corner lights. Over the top of the eastern buildings I can see the slow blinking aircraft warning lights that mark a tower in the distance.

It takes me back to a place. A couple of places, but I can't decipher which one belongs to which. My immediate instinct says Russia. Half of my memory has me playing overwatch from a cliff. Another has me somewhere like here –dark, old stone. The place smells wet and musty, like an old forest. I mouth the words that drift into my conscious.

Six.

Two.

Seven.

627

Prisoner number. 627.

"Was it all you imagined John?"

Elle's voice snaps me back to reality like the crack of a whip. I felt myself going down a rabbit hole just now and she grabbed me by the nape of the neck and pulled me back out. I don't like the feeling. It's laced with the unshakable sensation that it's going to be a one way trip down, and I have no contingency plan how to climb back up. I don't think I'm ready for it yet, but I keep finding myself staggering down that path.

"It's cold out."

It's just hovering at -1˚C.

"What did you expect, captain obvious?"

Her body shakes as she starts to laugh at me. A good natured laugh. I catch myself smiling back. Being outside has me starting to come around. Back in my element, riling the instincts. The bitter cold's a reminder that there's a world outside the confines of my bed and the hospital.

"Thanks Elle." I try not to sound ungrateful, but apparently I'm not the furnace I once was. The cold's seeping into the metal plates and pins. Like an ice pick being driven in by a hammer. But I don't want to go back. Not yet.

"You don't need to thank me. It's the least I can do." I feel her hand move lower and she gently tugs on my arm.

"Ready to head in?"

Pretty sure I was losing some feeling in my fingers.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

The walk back takes twice as long. By the time I break the threshold of my room I'm ready to tap out. Elle never lets go. She makes sure she gets me settled back in and gives a last scout over my charts. Another round on antibiotics. A touch of morphine to take the edge off the cravings and the pain. It hits with such a calming rush.

"How are we feeling John?"

"Fucking great." Food. Fresh air. Guy talk. A work out and a superior shave. Yeah, it was a pretty fucking awesome day.

"Good news, this is your final round with antibiotics. We'll find out in the next few days how everything plays out. I'd like to get these lines out next. I'm sure you'd like to be free of them too."

Check, and double check. More progress on the horizon. On the counter point, that also meant no more of that wonderful direct drip. Time to make a big step toward sobriety.

"And to honor Icelandic tradition, I picked up something for you on my way in today."

She rifles through her jacket pockets.

"I thought leaving you to your own devices may not be the best of ideas, so I picked up a little, _entertainment_. I'm not sure what you're into, but I figured something close to home might be nice."

I'm not sure what to expect at this point. When she finds what she's looking for, she holds it out for me to accept.

"Another book?" I glance down at the cover.

 _The Plague Dogs._

I give her a suspicious look. I think she's trying to pull some sort of prank. As I give the cover another once over, I can't help but notice the savage bite marks along my forearm and the back of my hands.

"You know any story involving a dog is only going to end badly." Not that I was complaining. One less mutt in the world.

"You don't need to be so cynical John. It's a good read. And it was the only appealing book I could find printed in English."

"I'm not being any more cynical than I have been. It's just the truth." I set it down in my lap. Elle's shrugging her jacket on, pulling the straggling hairs out from under the collar.

"Elle. Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done for me."

"You don't need to thank me John. It's my job. Seeing you come around is what makes my job worth it."

Elle smiles at me with some strange sort of look. Tired, maybe. She takes my hand one more time.

"Now, don't stay up too late. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Elle. Enjoy the time with your family."

There's a slight squeeze before she lets go. As she passes the threshold, she gives a parting wave.

I sigh, and look back down at the latest gift bestowed to me. Elle really outdoes herself. I wonder if she's like this with her other patients. I grab my journal from the bedside stand and open up to a fresh page.

* * *

A/N: _The Plague Dogs_ is an actual book, and on my to-read list (picking it up this weekend), but I've seen the film. I chose this book specifically because I thought it was so symbolic, and with a touch of irony for obvious reasons. Another big chapter that couldn't afford to be broken apart. Thanks again!


	8. Ghosts of Christmas Past

A/N: Please take moment before reading to have some food for thought to help put you in the mindset when you get there.

What stuck out to me during MW3 in Blood Brothers, after the explosion, Price runs over and pulls the debris off Soap. Knowing the outcome of the game, and looking back, that scene is an incredibly powerful moment of sadness.

If you've ever been there when someone, or something is dying, you try to convince them _they're "going to be alright."_ I think we are really just trying to convince ourselves. _We'll_ be alright. _We'll_ make it through this horrible ordeal because deep down, we know that our loved one isn't going to pull through. They're not come home with us. Not this time. It's denial.

Now go enjoy.

* * *

 **Ch7: Ghosts of Christmas Past**

It's the first morning I've slept in during my brief conscious time at the hospital. I get a new nurse I've never met before – Naomi- who just about gets herself incapacitated when she wakes me up from a dead sleep. Grabbing an unsuspecting female by the collar was not how I intended to start my morning. We stumble through the awkward improv greeting and things improve from there. She's quite the opposite of Elle –not just in looks, but attitude. Naomi is shyer than Jakob, and not nearly as assertive. Nervous too –but then again, with the kind of first impression I had made too, I'd probably feel the same way. I feel like I'm coaching her through what needs to be done for this morning.

I survive through the botched break in routine. The hospital is both quiet and lively throughout the day. Numerous visitors popping in and out, presumably visiting friends and loved ones who couldn't make it home. I don't expect much out of today, though I can't stop thinking about getting back outside again. I ask Naomi if I can get a little time back out in the atrium hallway that leads out to the courtyard to get a good walk in. When she takes me there, I get to enjoy the light when the sun finally breaks the horizon close to noon. The grounds are far larger than I expected, and I can make out the tops of several more buildings beyond the ones confining the courtyard Elle and I had taken a stroll on. I take out my journal and start sketching the view. It's a lot easier to draw with my left hand than it is to write. I also add to the rough layout I've started on this place.

When I'm escorted back to my room I start to get…irritated. Maybe it's feeling a little stir crazy, maybe it's because I'm still sore from yesterday and without the painkillers. It's also my first morning without Elle. In our short time getting to know one another, she's established a rapport. She's been sharp enough to dodge around my issues and provide the support I've needed. It's easy to tell she has a greater grasp with hands-on experience than Naomi does when it comes to rehabbing. Even Jakob –he's not afraid to step up and take initiative.

I finish out my evening with Elle's gift. The binding is already broken in and opens easily. I'm a good ways into the first couple chapters when someone knocks at my door frame.

I'm surprised to see Elle in the doorway.

"I thought you had the day off." I ask as she enters, stuffing her gloves into her pockets. Her cheeks and nose are red from the cold, her hair in a large messy braid that's caught up in the hood of her parka.

"I do. I just finished dinner with my family. I figured I'd check in with you and see how you were doing."

"Couldn't you have just called in?" Not that I was complaining. I was actually quite happy to see her. It was a relief, rather than dealing with the nervous-Naomi.

"And miss seeing my favorite patient?" she laughs. I'm caught off guard when she invites herself into my personal space and gives me hug. Really caught off guard. It's the first initiated contact and I feel a little uncomfortable. But it's…not unwelcomed either. Elle's brought the chill of the outside world and the clean crisp air in with her. She's grinning ear to ear when she lets go and resumes leaning on the bed rail.

"I didn't think you were allowed to have favorites." I try to shake off the overwhelming sensation. Feel a little hot even.

"We're not supposed to, _but_ , you're a special exception." She leans in close, dropping her voice to a mock whisper.

"You actually have quite the little fan club around here."

"Do I now?" I can't help but smile at that. "That's the first I've heard of it."

"Well, I didn't need you tripping over your ego. You're one of our top five high profile patients. Especially with your reputation preceding you. You had a waiting list before you ever set foot through our doors. Half the staff around here would kill to get the opportunity to work with you."

"I don't think I'm _that_ special." Hell, I couldn't even remember how I got here in the first place.

"Don't sell yourself short John. There are a lot of people who would want to get their hands on you." I catch the double talk. I'm safe for now but outside the walls of the facility, it was a very different world. One I probably wouldn't recognize.

"How did you end up as my primary?" I was curious.

"My experience, my research, and a file cabinet full of recommendations. I have one of the best records for patient recovery and rehabilitation. You're in good hands."

Quite literally. Her hand has abandoned its post on the bed rail and found its way to mine, her thumb moving across my knuckles.

"I think you got your work cut out for you then."

"You're right; you're probably one of the most extensive cases I've dealt with aside from my RAD patients."

"Rad?"

"Radiation Exposure." There's a sad look as she says it. Elle gives a little squeeze before she lets go.

"I'm actually heading over to visit a few of them next. But I wanted to see you first, John."

"I appreciate the surprise drop in, Elle."

"Merry Christmas John." Elle goes in for another hug. I fumble my way through far more comprehensively than the first one.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll see you then."

Just before she exits the door, she smiles and gives a parting wave.

I delve back into my book once she's gone, but find myself re-reading the same paragraph for the fourth time before I prop the book open on my thigh. I'm mulling over my brief conversation with Elle. I already know she's hinted that someone having basically bought and paid for my life by getting me into this hospital. I need answers. I need to know what's going on in the outside world. I'll fish on the issue tomorrow. Maybe work an angle with Jakob if Elle decides to stonewall me. Someone had to know something, and I wasn't into the business of secrets. Secrets got people killed.

I dog ear the page and go to put book on the bedside stand. A small green bag covered in a snowflake pattern is sitting on there, tufts of stuffing paper poking out. I grab the bag from the stand and inspect it before pulling it apart. There's no tag, but I know Elle left it behind. She's sneaky like that. I turn the bag upside down and shake it out. A small note card falls out with the present.

Call it bribery, but I understand why Elle comes with such high recommendations. She has insight. She's thoughtful.

I use my good hand and play with my new toy. It's one of those fancy gripmasters that rock climbers use, each finger able to articulate under a tension spring. I like it. _A lot_.

I set the spring down and read the note card.

" _Put it to good use."_ And there's a little smiley face at the end.

I about nearly drop the tensioner on the floor when I try to get a hold of it with my right hand. It takes a good amount of focus to position it into place, but when I do, I feel pretty accomplished. Each finger struggles to press against the grip pads, but one by one, I manage to jiggle the spring, ever the slightest. It's weak, but it's progress. I can't feel anything specific, but there's still motor function. Minimal, but functional. That's all I need. That's all I've ever needed. If there's a will, there's a way.

My evening goes on relatively quiet, until Naomi comes back again. She's all flustered. I tolerate her short comings. Midway through the evening close out procedures and dinner I get the epiphany that maybe I'm just a bit spoiled by Elle. Naomi's nice enough, even though she won't look me in the eye. Maybe she's just thrown off from her own routine too.

I turn on the TV and watch whatever cheesy typical reruns of classic Christmas movies while I bounce away on the gripmaster. By 2000 hrs I'm feeling exhausted but I can't sleep. I'm wound up. I have the itch for the morphine and I doubt I'm getting any this even. Anxious. On edge. Every sound from the hallway has me jumpy, festering as an unfounded fear. I fight the feeling through the night, biding the evening with my journal.

…

…

…

"John."

God my neck hurts.

"John, time to wake up."

I recognize Elle's voice, and her touch. But I don't want to move.

"No." I groan, dragging my hand over my face. I feel like I've been run over. Absolute, rock bottom. I don't think there's a part of me that doesn't hurt.

Her voice softens.

"Didn't sleep well last night?"

"That's a nice way of putting it." I snap. I know it's not her fault but I can't help it. I physically can't.

"Ouch." Elle feigns injury. I feel her removing a book from my lap.

"Sounds like you're already having rough start to the day."

I finally make eye contact with her. She's giving me a look I can only describe as empathetic as she's holding my charts.

"From reviewing your records from last night, it looks like they skipped on the morphine. I know the game plan is to get you off of it, but not if it's going to backdraft on us. You've been a heavy opioids user in the past, and long term."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I feel like it's a personal attack. If there was one thing I wasn't, it was a user.

"Think of an alcoholic who's fallen off the wagon. Quitting is that much harder. At least for a dependent body."

Elle's pulling on a pair of gloves as she prepares to draw blood. I'm grateful for the port line, I don't think I could handle being poked this early.

We go through our morning rituals, and go headlong back into PT. It takes twice as much to focus on the tasks at hand, I feel like I'm floundering through it. At noonish, during lunch break Elle gives me some good news. The stronger does of antibiotics is doing its job, there's a significant decrease in my blood work. She wants the port out. She pushes some pills my way too. Not as strong, but it should help take the bite out withdrawal and help with the pain.

I survive the ordeal of PT. Stairs. More conditioning. Neck, lower lumbar, range of motion. Longer walks. The pills have helped, but not as good as the morphine. It's part of the growing pains. The same soreness you get after a good workout. I try to convince myself of that at least.

After dinner Elle takes me on another stroll to the atrium and finds us a spot on a bench. I take my journal with me. I knew I wrote some questions in there that I've been meaning to ask her, but I'm in a half daze and can't find them. The page I was working on last night into this morning is a complete mess –nothing but crosshatching over something I had been drawing underneath. Elle glances over.

"The mind is a busy place John."

"Does it ever get better?" I don't quite know where that came from, but I know it's from a hopeless place.

"It'll get clearer. The human mind is incredibly strong. And yet, incredibly frail. Some things it can heal from, and other things it can't."

I feel her hand on my shoulder.

"You've seen a lot in your time John, and you've done an equal amount."

"What happened Elle." I keep my tone firm. It isn't a question.

I can see the look on her face. I've seen it before. Not here though. Another time, another life.

This is going to get ugly. Real quick.

"I don't know if-" I head her off before I get shut down. My tolerance for bullshit is at zero.

"I need to know Elle. I need to know what the hell is going out there. Don't fucking lie to me."

Elle flinches. I think it's the first time I've snapped at her without reasonable cause of pain. It's manifested from the hardened soldier who is at his wits end. When she finds her voice, it's quiet. Submissive.

"There's a box of your belongs in storage. Everything that was on you. I'll get that out for you. It'll take a couple of days."

Her hands are balled up in her lap and her head is down. She lays them flat and smooths out the creases on the thighs of her scrubs before she looks up at me.

"The world was at war John. And you were part of it. The top leaders have established a cease fire, for now. Vladimir Makarov is still alive and no one can find him."

 _ **Makarov**_

The name plunges a burning chill through me. Cuts like a knife. Every old injury awakens. I see so many faces and images flash through my mind at light speed. I can hear _their_ voices. The weight lifting off my body. Hear **his** **voice**. He's grabbing the belt of my harness to roll me over. I want to throw up.

' _Look at me! You're alright!'_

I can taste the concrete dust with a hint of chlorine. Taste the iron in my mouth. Ash. I want to believe him.

I'm not alright.

I'm not alright, and someone's putting their hands on me. My adrenaline is spent and I feel…vulnerable. The tank's empty. It's realer than real. It's a horrible feeling, knowing you're dying. And yet you act calm about it, because all you're running on is shock at that point. I can't catch my breath. I don't want it to end. Not here. Not this place.

The pins in my ankle rattle. The pain where a knife once bit. The crushing pounding in my skull. My ears are ringing until I'm deaf.

 _John._

I can't tell if he's was trying to convince himself, or to convince me. I'm not alright.

"John."

A feel something run across my back. I can finally breathe again. I'm watching the ash fall outside the window in heaps.

"John."

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I smell perfume. Elle's staring at me. She looks worried. A shudder rolls through me. My hands can't stop shaking. Elle takes my hand into both of hers, rubbing in small circles.

"Where'd you go John?"

I struggle to find the worlds. The life has been drained out of me. It's gone as quickly as it had come. Like a mirage, it vanishes.

"I don't know." I do know I feel a thundering headache coming on. And nauseous. Elle runs her hand up my spine until she's at the back of my neck, pressing forward.

"Put your head between your knees."

I do what I'm told. And I'm able to hold onto my supper for a bit longer. Elle keeps rubbing along my back, whispering.

"Stay with me John. It'll pass."

'… _stay with me son…'_

I finally come up for air. I've never felt embarrassed like this before. Helpless. I can't handle myself physically. Definitely not emotionally. Elle gets me back to my room and pushes a few more pills my way. My choice though –the valium is optional, but I can't get the oxy if I do. I take her up on the offer. Work in my journal some more. I scribble down anything that comes to memory from that…episode. Another rabbit hole I was diving down. And the ground was coming up to meet me. Fast. Elle pulled me back out –again.

I wonder what would have happened to me if she didn't?

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a review and let me know how this story is sounding.


	9. Battle Scars

A/N: A little filler, but shedding some light on the extent of Soap's injuries. Next chapter moving on the story front.

* * *

 **Ch8: Battle Scars  
**

Morning arrives, and so does Elle. Wakes me up like she always does. I'm thankful for her consistency in our routine.

"Good morning John."

"Morning Elle." I'm flat on my back, covering my face with my forearm. Maybe I should have skipped on the valium and taken the oxy instead. I feel a wash of calm over me though. A lot more composed than yesterday. But still shook up inside.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I focus on her voice. The touch of her hand as she moves up to my shoulder.

"Alright I guess." I huff out a sigh.

"I have some good news for you."

She keeps rubbing my shoulder.

"I have you scheduled for port removal on Friday."

I feel like I should be excited, but I can't muster the enthusiasm like I hear in Elle's voice.

"Alright, let's get you up. No languishing this morning."

Breakfast, walking, and kicking it up on PT. Jakob gets me started with light cardio on the stationary bike and delves into range of motion on my knees, hips and ankles. He's patient with me, but not afraid to push me, just like Elle does. Elle works with him directly with rehabbing my right arm.

I pick up reading _The Plague Dogs_ that evening after being drug through the ringer and 4 longer walks down the gulag. No morphine again, but a handful of oxy in its place. I can only imagine what ordeal my liver must going through. It's been nothing but drugs and IV cocktails since I've been here. Can't imagine was being pushed on me earlier when I was in a coma.

* * *

Day 12. Wednesday. Dec 28, 2016

Spa day as Elle calls it. Tells me to expect it about every Wednesday. Bigger portions on my meals for starters. A few walks, but more scenic ones down to the atrium. Easy stretching. A lengthy massage. I feel like a million bucks for once without the pills.

She brings me into the bathhouse for a fresh cut and shave. When Elle leaves to grab some hot towels, I recognize Anna coming in and she's escorting someone to the barber chair next to mine. I give Anna an acknowledging smile. It's been some time since I've seen her.

"Hello John."

"Anna."

"You're looking good." She smiles, but a different kind of smile than the one Elle gives me. She helps her patient into the chair to my left. The guy looks physically fit, but when I see the large bandages covering the area of his knee I recognize where he's from.

"About to look even better here in a minute." I muse, feeling the heavy stubble along my jaw and chin.

Once Anna gets him seated I start sizing him up. He snaps his eyes on me and does likewise. It's a guy thing.

"I recognize you from the PT hall last week." I start.

"Name's Chad." He leans far over and extends his right hand. I hesitate before I offer my own.

"John. Careful mate. Shit's all jacked up."

He's firm but careful when he shakes my hand. He's powerful, through and through, top to bottom except for his knee. Even then I don't think it'd hold him back from kicking someone's ass. Hands like a steel trap, forearms like timber. Straight up reminds me of a grizzly bear, and probably just as rough around the edges. Reminds me of what I used to be. But he's a straight up Yank.

"You're that motherfucker who survived the explosion." He says matter-of-fact.

"I suppose. Don't remember anything about it though." I hear footsteps approaching down the hall outside of the room.

"That shit was insane. You were part of the 22nd and the one-four-one, right?" I give him a moderate shrug of 'I don't know' because I have no idea what he's talking about.

"We gotta get together and swap some stories. Could use the company."

"Sounds good." I reply. Elle's snuck up behind me and throws a towel over the back of my neck and shoulders. Nice and hot. I look up to acknowledge her presence.

"That's if Nurse Ratched here agrees."

"What's this nonsense about?" Elle looks taken back, mock insulted. I hear Chad snickering next to me.

"What are you two conspiring about now?"

"She's the boss of you too, huh?" Chad razzes, wearing a crooked smile. He reminds me of unruly teenager, but he has a few years on me. Anna starts working up a lather on the soap.

"Chad's invited me over to his place for a few drinks."

"Is that so? Elle's smiling a pleasant smile. Digs her fingers into my scalp and gives a solid itch, messing up my hair. I feel it tingle all the way down to my toes.

"Can't hog him all to yourself Elle." Chad warns.

"Who's the warden and who's the patient here Mr. Whitney?"

"I don't see your name at the top of my papers." He rebounds, snickering the whole time.

"Look harder then. Anna, you might need to check Mr. Whitney's eyes for delusions of grandeur."

Elle starts up the electric clippers, squaring me up in the mirror.

"Same as last time?"

I run my hand through the brush cut. Amazing how fast that grows too.

"Same as the last."

* * *

From our brief interview, I decide Chad Whitney seems like a cool guy. A Yank as expected, and worse yet, hails from New York but without the typical accent everyone talks about. Proudly calls himself an "Up-stater" –whatever that means. I'll have to ask him when I get the next opportunity.

Elle pampers the shit out of me. I don't think I've ever had it so good. It's a sunny day outside and she takes me out for a longer walk in the courtyard where we first went. The snow is over a foot deep and almost too bright. But I savor every moment being outside. It's invigorating.

Back at my room, Elle sits with me and we chat. Casual shooting the bull and making fun out of the commercials. Works me through a few hand exercises. Promises a field day with Chad. When I ask why she hasn't introduced me sooner to other patients, she gives me a fair response. People can help with healing, but they can also provide distractions, especially coming out of serious injury. And with coming out of a coma in a new place, establishing a small ring of trusted individuals to build a rapport was necessary. Too many people can be overwhelming, over stimulating, to a mind that's been through hell and back. Learning a patient's temperament and needs. Knowing when to back out of a situation. Knowing when to be there.

I admire her thoughtfulness on the process. Honestly cares about her work and takes each patient into consideration. I gain a greater appreciation for what she's done. I'm surprised when our conversation takes a turn. Some cheesy hospital soap is on and Elle's laughing at some of the ridiculous inaccuracies. As always, some trauma patient is rushed in through the double doors and there's a flurry of activity.

"I remember the day you arrived here."

Instantly my ears perk up, and I look over to her.

"It had been a nice day out otherwise. Rumors were filtering through we were receiving another shipment of severely wounded. The whole hospital was on standby. We started receiving patients around 2 in the afternoon and it didn't end until 3am. It was a slow but steady trickle. You were in the second to last group to arrive."

She extends my right arm, working out each finger and asks me to try to close my fist while she holds resistance.

"You were packed with probably half a ton of dirty rags, and clotting agents. You could smell the dead tissue before we even opened you up. We had to removal several feet of your intestines, and a portion of your liver and pancreas. They call it necrotic wound debridement. You were at risk of losing your right leg when we realized your femoral artery was collapsing.

I couldn't even begin tell you how many transfusions we had to do.

We lost you on the table three times that night just trying to stabilize you. Eight hours of surgery. You still weren't out of the clear, not by a long shot. We didn't think it anyone would be able to survive the amount of hemorrhaging you sustained. If the initial trauma didn't kill you, we figured infection or tissue necrosis would. Probably wouldn't make it more than 3 days despite our best efforts."

She closes my hand for me into a fist.

"A week before, I had just lost a patient when I had gone home for my pass days. I felt responsible for their death -that if I had been there, I could have prevented it. I don't think I left your room any more than I had to out of necessity. I wanted to know that if anything happened to you, I was going to be there, and know that I had done everything within my power."

Elle instructs me to hold it closed when she lets go. I maintain the clench longer than I expected, but when I go to relax my hand it's about a 10 second delay from what I think to what actually responds. Something about her words resonate with me. I know the feeling. I know I was responsible at one point for sending men to their untimely deaths.

"But you pulled through, John. You had plenty of bad nights. Like I've mentioned before, you would start screaming and yelling, pulling everything out and fight anyone who tried to lay a hand on you. That's how I knew you'd come around. You're a fighter."

The information is deep, as it is heavy. Elle's never poured out like this before. It also explains some of the wicked scars I've acquired. And how lucky I am to be alive. Or maybe I'm better suited to say, 'back from the dead.' Another supporting testament to Elle comparing my existence to a ghost.

"So what does someone do for 9 weeks bedside with a stranger?" That's an awful long time to sit around someone in a coma. Especially one you've never met before. It'd be one thing if it was family or a friend, but…a complete stranger?

"Much of what we do now, except the conversations were more one sided." Elle gives a lighthearted laugh.

"Changing dressings, checking the progress of the incisions healing, monitoring bodily functions and output. Ordering medication. Physical therapy. I read to you. A lot. I personally believe it helps the person in a coma recover faster, stimulating activity in the brain. There's been supporting studies on the subject."

She's holding my hand and massaging my palm, working her way up my wrist.

"I know that if I was in a coma, I'd like it if someone actually sat with me. Acknowledged me. Didn't treat me like some inanimate object in the room. Everyone deserves the best possible chances for recovery."

"I appreciate it Elle." Even if I don't always say it.

There had been plenty of days, especially in the beginning that I was _unruly_ [that was a nice way of putting it]. I'm sure Elle had some choice names for me behind my back too, and I don't blame her if she does.

She gives a dismissing laugh.

"You need to stop thanking me John."

Elle informs me she'll go over a more detailed report of everything they've done to me during my stay at _Steinn Aflinn_. Apparently my cognitive function and reasoning center is up to par to handle heavy comprehensive information. After she leaves for the evening I try not to focus on the newly divulged information regarding my injuries. Tomorrow I'm going to get the complete rundown. Might be the more appropriate time to ask questions.

I know I could have done it tonight, but Elle had already overstayed her normal hours. She deserves time to herself. Especially after practically baby sitting my ass since October. As I start on a fresh page in my journal I can't help but pass by the black crosshatched page. I can feel the image slightly underneath like brail, but there's no way to distinguish it.

* * *

Morning begins early as usual. Elle and Jakob start me off with some serious stretches before telling me their putting me through a physical battery test. She was supposed to document my progress last week (and every following one thereafter) but signed a waiver. Said the last thing I needed was to be unnecessarily put through the ringer when I was just beginning to make progress.

There's a slew of range of motion tests, resistance, reflex, and responses. Blood work as expected. More of the typical stuff you expect when you go in for a regular medical exam.

It's a tiring process, mostly because of its demanding structure. Couple times I asked for a break, not because I'm exhausted but for the pain. I push back on lunch and finish out the exam.

Elle's brought in extra leftovers and goes over my results. She's courteous when asks if she wants to go over my results before, or after lunch, and I tell her I've never been squeamish over that kind of stuff.

Femoral artery repair with stint. Approximately 4 foot of necrotic large intestine removed. 1/3 of hemorrhaged liver removed. A small part of the pancreas. Severe trauma to the stomach. The lower half of my ribs broken, the upper half fractured, a select number broken. Collapsed lung. Shattered left ankle now equip with pins, and plate in the fibula. Titanium rods in my left forearm, more pins and plates. Chunk of bone removed from my right elbow, but the bigger concern in the nerve damage from my shoulder down. Series of minor fractures in my cervical vertebrae, several low lumbar. Both collar bones busted. Broken nose and fractured orbital socket. Minor fractures across my pelvis. Concussion. Two rounds of pneumonia. Infection as result from hemorrhage and necrotic tissue.

And she concludes it all with,

"I think you made out pretty good considering. Now onto the good news."

Infection –gone. Majority of my breaks healed and others on the mend. Increased range of motion in all areas of my movements. Increased response in my right hand, though the damage is still substantial –some of it probably permanent at this point. All bodily functions working up to par. Obvious forward progress with being taken off the feeding port and moving onto real food. I've put on 1.6kg. My memories are still a jumble, but overall my mental capacity is firing on all cylinders. Still requiring medication for pain management, but I'm off of the morphine and onto the Oxycontin.

Tomorrow I'm having the port in my chest officially removed. Local anesthetic and should be fairly minor. I'm not too worried, this is the least of my concerns at this point.

After Elle leaves for the night, I spend a little quality time looking myself over in the bathroom mirror. I was glad when they upgraded rooms that I finally had access to a mirror.

All the new scars. The one on my chest is the worst looking. It's finally mended but it looks like it's had a belt sander taken to it. I press on it, feeling the knotted divot below the surface of the skin, the piece of bone missing from the knife. It carries with it a dark reminder of betrayal, though I can't quite recall exactly who or what still.

The second noticeable one starts below the sternum, follows centerfold and ends just above my hip. The scarring is clean and minimal considering the length of it. The one along my forearm and ankle are thin and clean. Precise. A good surgeon's hallmark. The artery stint no more than an inch incision inside the thigh. Elbow a gloss of scar tissue in an angular design.

There's the old one on my face. Lucky I didn't lose an eye when that one happened.

The rest are minor. Every gunshot faded. The dog bites, the random other cuts and scrapes marking both forearms equally.

A living canvass of survival.

* * *

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a little nervous about getting a local anesthetic to remove the port when morning comes. I trust Elle, I trust Jakob and the other staff I've met around here, but there's nothing worse than being doped so your high as a kite and can't function. Elle insists on keeping me comfortable and taking the edge off my nerves. I do my best to believe her –she hasn't done wrong by me yet, but I still wasn't going to put my faith in anyone further than I could throw them –and that wasn't very far. Absolute zero.

I don't remember what time it started. Or what time it ended. I know I just feel fucking amazing. By dinner I feel more like myself, but my face hurts. Elle tells me I was laughing the entire time.

* * *

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. I'm sure for some of you the action is non existent, but part of Soap's journey is facing his past, and overcoming his injuries and disabilities., the one seen and unseen. Next chapter holds some plot moving forward. Please leave a review if you have any suggestions, they're always appreciated!


	10. From Russia with Love

A/N: Pushing for plot development here. Remember the hunt for Makarov is still on.

* * *

 **Ch9: From Russia with Love**

Today is otherwise uneventful, considering its New Year's Eve. Again the hospital is all fun and games, and full of energy. Elle's all smiles and has plans for going out tonight with staff friends. With my sense of taste and smell coming around and feeling more of myself with each day, it's hard to not want some of the smaller luxuries in life –like the outside world. PT is changed up and fun in the spirit of the holiday. It feels better not having the port in my chest anymore, but its absence has left the area tender.

Elle kicks me loose to the atrium with several others after a nice stroll outside in the cold. She wants to visit some of her RAD patients, and it gives me some alone time without being trapped in my room. She delivers some good news.

"I want you to know I've scheduled a date for you with Mr. Whitney on Tuesday."

"A date, huh?"

"He's been annoying the hell out of Anna since he formally met you."

I could imagine that too. He had an energetic enough personality about him. Pushy. Persistent. Even belligerent. Straight up Yankee.

"I could use a change of surroundings. All this estrogen around here is starting to smother me."

"You won't be saying that when the cavalry comes in." Elle gives a coy remark. I missed something here.

"Who?"

"You'll find out soon enough if you haven't met them yet. Now, John," she pauses, giving me a once over before she leaves me unattended for the first time in an open space.

"Do you need anything else before I go?"

"Bring me back some scotch."

"No."

"Fine." I concede. Figured it was worth a shot. Elle starts to exit towards the main lobby, but not without giving me a friendly parting wave before she walks through the large glass doors.

I chat with a few passerby's. Or rather, they stop to chat with me. A female cancer patient. Several nursing staff who recognize me as Elle's exclusive ward. Signey from CT scanning. She's amazed with my recovery progress.

During my whole time while enjoying my journal out in the atrium, I notice something. Call it my reflexes returning to me, but there is something that doesn't quite belong. I'm not sure what. It's not until the woman across the way smiles at me. She's wearing a dark grey jacket and a light purple colored scarf. Tall black boots. Older, grayed out hair. Maybe late 60s.

That's the only time she does though. I almost completely dismiss her until I'm nose deep in my journal and someone passes by, slipping an envelope into the open spine of my journal. It's her. She's a lot larger framed than I expected. In shape for her age. A robust silver stamped ring. She plays it casual.

"Happy New Year Captain MacTavish. Welcome back."

This is where your training comes in. From pose, posture and knowing your geographical areas. From the way she carries herself, she's probably ex-military, which is shocking for her age group. Still operating in the field in some way. German undertones -might be a ruse but it comes too natural for her dialect. Too proud. Sharp cheek bones and straight nose. Small scar on her upper lip, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye. I don't recognize the sigil on the face of the ring. Looks like a V or a six.

I go to apprehend her before she leaves but I hear Elle as she breaks the lobby threshold, laughing with her protégé, Jakob. I don't want to make a scene and the moment of distraction is all the woman needs to break the reactionary gap. She vanishes into the crowd. I peek down at the envelope she left in my journal. Could be something import. Could be someone sent to kill me. She had that vipery feel to her. Never let someone's age deceive you. Killers come in all shapes and sizes.

Could even be one of Makarov's loyalist hit men.

And now this envelope was sitting in my lap. Checkmate. I close my journal carefully as Elle approaches me. She looks elated. Refreshed. Almost too happy to see me.

"Did you enjoy yourself John?"

"Of course. I was going to call security to bat all these visitors away."

"I know! It's a busy today!" she sounds exasperated, but in a positive way. Elle stands with her arms akimbo, looking ready to tackle the next task at hand –namely me.

"You ready to get going?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

* * *

Elle tucks me in for night and warns me I'd be having a different nurse on call since she's off the next 2 days.

"It's not Naomi, is it?" I have to know.

"You sound a little worried John." She's doing nothing to hide the shit eating grin on her face as she's jotting down her notes for the day on my charts. I manage to make good attempt at a full close on the gripmaster with my right hand before it springs back open.

"I think I have a right to be." This time Elle laughs out loud.

"Well, will you sleep better if I told you no?"

"Would you be lying to me?"

"Not entirely. She's not assigned to this wing, but she is working tonight."

Great. Just great. That girl gave me the heeby jeebies with how jumpy she was. Granted, I **did** apprehend her, but she never bounced back from that. Too apprehensive with her moves. I feel my fingers drumming the springs without prompt.

"You look absolutely ecstatic about it John."

I know she caught me rolling my eyes. I thought I was about to hurt my neck from doing it so hard.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You don't exactly have a great poker face if that's what you're asking me."

"Look, if you're leaving me to that whack job's care, I propose you give me a contingency plan how to survive the next two days while avoiding her."

"Was she really that bad?"

I won't dignify it with a response. My face says it all.

"You should try to be nice to her if she does drop in John. She's a good girl." Elle finishes her notes and tucks the chart back up by the top of the bed.

"I'll try –for your sake, Elle."

"I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure she would too if you do. Need anything else? I'm sorry for heading out a bit early tonight-"

"I'm fine Elle." I interject.

"Thanks for asking though."

"Are you sure? Last call."

"Got anymore of that morphine?"

"I'm not your personal drug dealer." She gives me a hard time,

"I've got some oxy set aside if you need later tonight. You've been doing really well with your pain management and I want to keep progressing that way. What's bothering you John?"

"Left hip. It started this afternoon." Honestly did too. I've noticed at times my pain reception is a delayed. Elle gets her hands on me before I can stop her.

"I didn't mean you needed to do something about it now."

"If you're uncomfortable you need to let me know. I have to make sure it's not an underlying condition. The last thing I need is you throwing a clot."

She grabs my left leg and bends it at the knee, then draws it back towards my chest. Does a few different maneuvers. It's when she starts working it left to right I find myself tensing up. Elle picks up on my reaction and gives her diagnosis.

"You're probably over compensating your weight bearing load when you're walking. It starts with your foot, then to the knee, up to your hip. Next it'll affect your back, then your shoulders and neck."

"And what do you plan on doing about that?"

"We'll worry about that when I return. I'll make an entry in your notes though so they're aware."

She grabs the chart one more time and scribbles down more information. Satisfied, she returns it to wall mounted box, and gives me a once over, straightening out the blankets she's disturbed in the process of assessing my discomfort. Ells posts up on the bedside rail.

"Anything else you want to let me know before I head out."

"I'm good. Enjoy your night out Elle."

"Thank you John. You too." She leans across and gives me a hug. I'm much better about it this time.

I wait until 2200 hrs to retrieve my journal from the stand. The note is still tucked inside where it had been dropped off.

I still can't determine if it's laced with something. Ricin, Anthrax. Arsenic. Strychnine. Those were just the well known typical ones. There were 100s more unlisted and unnamed. Before I open the envelope I write down a description of the woman and document the encounter. In case I die or something. At least they'll know if was under some suspicious circumstances, and not liver failure or a blood clot.

After much anticipation, I give a thorough inspection of the envelope. Nothing note worthy about it. Self adhesive strip. I use my pen to open it up, half expecting to find some sort of powder or residue. Nothing. Just a folded piece of paper inside. If I've been exposed to something, it's too late. I flip open the tri-fold and study its contents.

Handwritten. Chicken scratch. I stare at it for a while trying to decipher the code. It know I know it. But I can't read it. After mulling over it for a while I tuck it back inside its envelope and safely into my journal. Maybe I just need to look at it with a fresh set of eyes and a clear mind. The whole encounter had me on edge. I didn't like the fact I had let that woman get so close to me without noticing until it was too late. Had that been in the field, it certainly meant death. I stuff my journal under my pillow that night.

0154 hrs and I snap awake. I had been having a dream. I was trapped inside a tin cubical and given a piece of paper with meaningless scribbles all over them. I'm up to my knees in water, it keeps rising. The walls were covered in strange symbols too, top to bottom. There was a screen in front of me equip with a keyboard, and I had to somehow translate one code type to the next. I know if I don't do it right, something terrible is going to happen.

Now I know it. Now, I understand.

I rip my journal out from underneath and fish out the letter. The night lights are dim and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. I look over the chicken scratch again until it makes sense. It's Russian, and I recognize the handwriting. I know this person. And they know me.

 _They say you made it. Rumors are just rumors until they're confirmed otherwise, right?_

 _Trust, but verify_ _. If so, I hope they're taking care of you. Don't mind the old goat, you know how stubborn they can be._

 _With love,_

– _N_

The general message was a reach out, and most likely expecting a response.

 _Trust, but verify_. The Russian proverb carries its own weight alone. Right now I was blind. I had no resources except for a RN from the most forsaken neutral rock in the Atlantic as my ally. No one on the outside. A faceless handler. The nameless stranger with the ring that knew exactly who I was and I knew nothing about.

It's a sobering moment. The hunt is back on and my cover compromised. Elle had been fair in her warnings, but I wish she hadn't held back.

I fold up the paper, stick it back in the envelope and move it to the back page of my book for safeguarding. I want to know who the woman is. How she knows me. How to get back in contact with her and maybe get a message out.

Maybe it's a trap.

I try to go to sleep but my mind's a mess of questions and possibilities. I never considered myself the paranoid type until now. Then again, with as many brushes with death, and a direct hand in the direction of the world war, one can only expect to get jaded. That's the nice way of putting it.

I need to get that box of my belongings. There's answers in there.


	11. Call in the Cavalry

A/N: A little fun here and a side step. I have some new ideas developing on the horizon so I decided not to rewrite this section and keep it open ended/ vague. A little relationship/ character development here.

* * *

 **Ch10: Call in the Cavalry**

I wake up the next morning. Alive and well. Apparently the stranger wasn't sent to kill me -just yet.

The contents of the letter leave me looking over my shoulder. I half expect to see the woman slinking in the background, but I never do. After the first day of it, I'm mentally fatigued and mad. My life is the epitome of living hell, finally on the upswing of shit, and now I'm demoted to living like a fugitive -again. The mental distraction manifests itself during my afternoon PT while I'm climbing the set of stairs. A wrong twist and the newly met heavy set blonde Rafney about gives me whiplash as she breaks my fall. I'm grateful for the save, and the only thing really hurt is my pride. I'm probably the only guy to fall _up_ the stairs, not down.

By evening I want to break something, and the gripmaster pacifies my temper. It's amazing what a little motivation can work wonders on a FUBAR arm. My anger completely blocks the nerve pain.

There's a knock at the door, accompanied by an unexpected chorus of giggling.

There's 3 of them crowding the doorway, all smiling and waving. The tall blonde says something in Icelandic. Pretty sure she's either asking if they can come in, or looking for directions. The short petite brunette whispers to the others and invites herself in, the tall blonde and bleach blonde girls following on her heels. I don't understand a word of what their saying. It's much like when Elle switches to her native language to bark orders -high pitching trilling and fast. I hear a few other women's voices out in the hallways passing by.

I give the trio a once over. I can tell from the way they're dressed they're no ordinary visitors.

The brunette makes an attempt at asking if I'm " _The_ John". I doubt I'm the only John in this whole facility and respond with a shrug. The other two stand beside her. Smiling. Giggling. Hungry wolves in sheep's clothing. There's a glimpse of a gold necklace resting on the exposed bosom of the tall blonde -a rearing horse. I don't know if I should say yes. Part of me wonders if it's some ploy in light of yesterday's events.

And all those doubts go right out the window.

Before I know it, someone's mouth is on me and my mouth is on someone else's.

It's perhaps the best kind of ambush any soldier could ask for. Two's company, three's a crowd.

Four's an outright scandalous party.

Happy fucking New Years.

* * *

The next day I reason myself out of the paranoia and fall in what I can only describe as intoxicated. Euphoria. Surreal. Somewhere along the way I had forgotten about girls. It was never a priority or fixation. Now I remember why. They had almost gotten me in trouble the last time. And the previous night's rendezvous was a sweet indication of the dangerous path I could be heading down.

Pretty sure I could still taste the vodka in my mouth. The girls too. Find myself musing over the encounter.

I drift through PT and almost forget about my worries with Naomi when we cross paths on Monday night. She gets all squirrely when she sees me. I pitch a ground ball and play nice as she does the closing night patrol through the wing.

By late night, my head is out of the clouds. Back to reality. I can finally think clearly, undistracted. I finish out the evening with the book Elle gave me. It's a decent read. I'm not a dog guy, but I relate with Snitter. Things weren't always so bad with me at one point in my life too. Young, optimistic, naïve, invincible. Believing in our cause and loyal to a fault. Stupid is the better word for my recklessness. It got people hurt. It got people killed.

I got people killed.

* * *

Day 18 1/3/17

Nothing escapes past Elle. Within five minutes of being back to work, in my room, there's a whole paradigm shift. I can't tell if it's her or me though.

"Good morning John."

She takes a hold of my right hand where it's laying across my chest. I can make out the sensation of her hand by its warmth but fail to register her thumb across the back of my knuckles.

"Morning Elle."

"How'd we make out this weekend?"

Make out? It was a practically a full-blown orgy.

"It was quiet." I don't know how I maintained my composure. But I feel Elle's stare on me. It's suspicious. And I give it right back.

"I'm glad."

"How was your time off? Do anything special?"

"I stayed out with the gang and practically slept off the hangover the next day. I think I spent all of yesterday in my pajamas."

The thought of Elle in anything else but her scrubs was a bit hard to imagine -except when she came in on Christmas to visit. Even then she was bundled up in her parka.

"I can't imagine you drunk."

"Why's that?"

"You're too…" Can't quite think of the word. Guess I just never thought of her that way.

"Don't you dare try to say I'm 'no fun'. Speaking of _fun_ ," Elle pauses, stops rubbing, then pats the top of my hand to conclude our ritual greeting.

"I hope you're ready for an afternoon with Mr. Whitney."

Shit. That's today? It had slipped my mind amidst the chaos of the past few days. Between the stranger, the letter and the girls I was all disoriented.

"Can't wait."

* * *

A few warm up laps before anything. Breakfast is a complete surprise -french toast, small portion of bacon, cherries. Elle's outdone herself. Then it's off to PT to make up for lost time. I feel energized coming out of it and even better after the hot shower. The incision from the port is healing nicely. It feels good being free of all the IV lines and restraints. Still not free of the pills. Once I'm presentable she brings me by to Chad's place. He's in the same wing but towards the other end. As we approach I can hear something hard slapping against the wall. It makes a solid 2 hit ricochet. Well rhythmed.

"Keep it up Mr. Whitney and I'll be adding remodeling repairs to your bill." Elle announces as she breaks the doorway.

"Go ahead and do that sweetheart." Chad's seated closest to the window side of the room with something small in his hand. He's nothing but smiles and abundant energy. He throws a nod my way in greeting.

"Hey-oh hey-oh John. The warden finally say you could come out and play?"

"There's a first time for everything Chad."

"Call it a temporary release into custody Mr. Whitney." Elle answers.  
"Any funny business and I'll have that ball shoved somewhere unpleasant."

"I might enjoy it." He tosses the ball up and catches it, but never takes his eyes off Elle. Chad's movements are very reminiscent of an athlete.

"You probably would." She pulls up another chair and gets me seated.

"I'll swing by around 4 to reclaim my patient. You boys need anything you know who to call."

She gives a lingering look in my direction. Almost reluctant to leave.

"Be good John."

"Always am." She gives a good quick scratch through my hair. Points 2 accusing fingers at Whitney to say 'I'm have eyes on you' before leaving. Chad holds his tongue until she's out of the room. Breaks the silence when he pitches the ball hard against the far wall, hitting just below the wall mounted television. It bounces off the tiled floor and straight back into his hand.

"You hittin' that?" There's no filter with this guy.

"No."

"Not yet, you mean." The ball hits the wall again and finds its mark. He's got the most delinquent grin. I find myself failing to hold back a good chuckle. This guy is ridiculous.  
"When a man's not near the girl he loves, he loves the girl he's near."

"What the hell are you babbling about? You some sort of poet?"

"Nah. Read it somewhere." The ball ricochets again.  
"Captain John MacTavis, right? Chad Whitney, 1st Battalion 75th Ranger Regiment." He offers his hand again, still mindful when I return the handshake.

"Just call me John."

"Well John, welcome back to the real world. Heard a lot about you over the years. Legend, my friend. Fucking BAMF."

"Uh, thanks?" I never took compliments well. I always felt like I needed guidance. Fixing up. Correction. Even when my feet were under me, I still found myself looking for someone else's leadership while others were looking up to me. Fake it 'til you make it. One of the first lessons you learn.

"Quick question for you Chad."

"Shoot."

"You have the chance to meet, _those_ girls?"

"Ah, yes! They fancy themselves as The Cavalry." He throws the ball and catches it again flawlessly.

"The Cavalry?"

"Women have that certain affinity for horses, y'know? Same thing for a man in uniform. Like to mount up on a fine stead and shower us with their adoration."

"So that's what they're calling it now?" Heh, genius. The horse necklace made sense now.

"Call it a courtesy service. Honestly think they're a bunch of tag chasers. Got themselves more notches in their bed post than a wood carver."

Chad gives me the run down on the latest hospital gossip and we exchange what has become the sad fascinating apex of our current states. Being room bound with an active mind leads to dangerous discoveries -such as eves dropping, surveillance, and snooping through one's personal articles. It's both trivial and valuable information at the same time. Definitely an insight on how several people function in this place. After a bit the conversation changes pace.

"Eh, John buddy, you know I gotta ask -how'd it all go down? The fuck happened back at Site Hotel Bravo?"

The enemy of my enemy. Death breathing down my neck. The sand was in my face and I was staggering around with no bearings. The wound in my chest. Chad throws the ball again. I relive the feeling of that blade hilt leave my fingers just as quick. Resonating of chopper blades over my head. It's the beast in the sand from my waking dreams.

 _Hang in there, my friend._

"Actually Chad, I was hoping you could help with that."

* * *

A/N: I added in some last minute changes here and I'm kind of rolling the dice with it. Hope it didn't disrupt the flow here too much. Expect some background fill in the next chapter. Again, sorry this is kind of unwinding slowly, but I'm trying to be thorough and establish a good wholesome character development.


	12. Kindred Souls

AN: A little filler to follow up the encounter with Whitney. Thanks to a lack of format transposing, one of my executions of John's journal format is MIA. Tried to counter-steer to salvage the humor of the moment.

* * *

 **Ch 11: Kindred Souls**

Chad's not entirely surprised when I tell him I can't remember, but he's almost shocked when I tell him I hardly recall anything about my past. How it's all bits and pieces. Comes in random fragments, usually followed by moments of absolute paralyzing anxiety.

It's easier to admit you have a problem when someone else is going through the same thing. I know I struggled with it once before. PTSD. The feeling is all consuming. Nearly stopped me in my tracks. Until I found a purpose. Pushed all the feelings inside somewhere and ignored them. It didn't make anything better in the long run, but at least I was functional.

Chad embraces it. Says like the scars on our body, it's a testament of the shit we've actually been through. Lived through. _Survived_. Experience that can't been taken away from us. The deaths of our brothers lives on through us. We become their legacy. We continue to carry them into battle with us. Guy's a straight up motivational motherfucker. Charismatic. The kind who you just want to be around. A natural leader, and from a few of his stories, a natural born killer.

Whitney's an interesting character. 4 boys back home. Apparently the "Upstate" has 2 definitions -one's referring to anything north of NYC, the second referring to the rural mountains around the capital and northward. Used to work as a well driller until he became a career guy. Played baseball, coached kids football – and not real football. That atrocity known as American football. Apparently the wife was tired of waiting for him to call it quits. Wanted an actual father around for their kids. Recently divorced around the same time of his accident -IED in Germany claimed his knee and his partner -the loss is still raw. He speaks highly of him. He calls it "posthumous divorce". Never actually met the person who drug him out of the rubble, but his life is indebted to them.

He gives fair warning when he says it's going to take a bit to tell the tale of my past, especially because it's only coming from what he learned while out in the field. It all started back in 2011. 22nd S.A.S. I wasn't anything then but a greenhorn – a Yank word for rookie. Lowly sergeant in the world of collar brass. Should have been grateful to wear my chevrons. Fell under the order of a salted dog John Price. Captain Price. Renowned for his own deeds.

I have a name to the voice in my dreams. The man who pulled me from the debris. The man I owed my life to for countless reasons. My very existence. I remember flinching under his gaze. Like he was always looking for something I was doing wrong. Something to criticize. Remember always feeling like I was never doing anything right. It wasn't until much later I realized that what I took for him being an asshole was a misunderstanding. Price thought of me like his own son and was grooming me for a promotion. Shared a big laugh over it afterwards.

I ask about Price. Our paths are heavily entwined. Hardly one without the other. It's a great story, and it feels right. Familiar. He gets to a highlight in the story about the first nuclear detonation. The fall out. The aftermath. There's survivors here, though they're on borrowed time. Radiation Exposure. Elle's RAD patients…

There's a soft knock at the door. It catches Whitney and I off guard. Elle's leaning in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.

"You boys having fun?" She asks.

"Of course. This is an exclusive club you know. No girls allowed." Chad starts, trying to get a ruse out of Elle.

"Good thing, because that would exclude you from here too. I need my patient back Whitney."

Chad looks at me, as if I had a choice in the matter. Raises an eyebrow, expecting a response. I pass a look between my new found ally the Ranger and my warden, weighing my options.

"She's nice to me Chad." Outstanding actually. I chalk it up to Elle. I don't want our conversation to end here but I need to write it all down while it's still fresh.  
"I want to stay on her good side."

He leans back in his chair, tossing the ball up in the air to catch it.

"I see how it is John." He's unreadable. Can't tell if he's genuinely upset or busting my balls. Tosses the ball up and makes another catch.  
"Tactical. Fucking brilliant."

I hear Elle approaching, but Whitney's last comment has me confused. He leans in close, guarding his comment with a handshake.

"Get some solider."

And he's back to giggling, as if there's some personal secret between us. But it's contagious, and for no reason I'm starting to laugh too.

* * *

I'm surprised how late it is when Elle escorts me back to my room. Almost 2 hours past my usual dinner time. After chow, she comes back armed with a bin of supplies and sets it on the stand next to my bed.

"I though you could use a little extra time with Mr. Whitney. It sounded like you were both hitting it off."

"The man's a riot." Maybe even a few screws loose. US Rangers were always a little touched in the head. You had to be in order to do their job. Hell, even my job.

"He is _something_." Elle fusses with a touch of sarcasm, rolling her eyes. She pushes the oxycontin my way with some water. Apparently, she was more than acquainted with his shenanigans. Chad had mentioned having Elle as his warden prior to my arrival. I wonder if she was as involved with his recovery as she is with mine?

"John, would be you be so kind for me and take off your shirt? I'm going to change the port bandage. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I wanted to get a good look at it tonight before I left."

"And I was just getting cozy." I can't help but tease her and it pays off when she smiles. I know she's exhausted, yet she feels obligated to push herself at my expense. She pulls off the covered the area under my right collarbone, taking several steristrips with it. The incision isn't fully closed yet, apparent by the fresh red blood that has seeped through.

"How does it feel?" Elle asks, pulling on a pair of gloves and preparing a square with peroxide. Even though she's gentle, there's a fair amount of discomfort.

"Still sore, but better than it was."

"That tends to happen when you take hardware out after its been inside you for 12 weeks." Elle's focused on her work, criticizing every millimeter of the area.

"I'm not going to miss the bugger, that's for sure. I'm done with all the ports and needles."

She lets the incision dry before adding new steristrips and applying a covering, taping up the area. It actually feels good having a fresh bandage.

"I'm sure you are." Elle takes a moment to admire her handiwork. I catch her eyes wandering, her hands too. Pressing along my ribs and has me breath in, and exhale. They're sorer than I'd like to admit.

"I like what I see." There's something in her voice. Subtle, but it's there. She hands me my shirt back.

My encounter with the girls has me feeling _brave_ -no, cross that out- **stupid**. Definitely stupid.

"Do you now?" I know I'm giving her a look and I can't help it. It's a guy thing. Once the switch is turned on and there's no backing off until the steam's been let off. It's a terrible disposition that tends to get our kind in trouble.

Even if just for a moment, I feel confident Elle's interested. If she was though, she shuts me down. Fast. Nothing like a dose of reality and a kick to the cahonies when she laughs at me.

"I'm talking about your progress, Romeo. Don't think for one minute I don't know when the Cavalry visits." She winks and tilts her chin up, tapping at the crook between her neck and shoulder meet. I vaguely remember someone biting there. Hard. Without missing a step she redirects our conversation back to business.

"You've gained a lot of muscle tone in a short period of time. Put a little weight on. Everything is mending nicely with minimal scarring."

I pull my shirt back on with Elle's help to avoid destroying her work. Getting my right arm to cooperate is still a challenge, especially with the tightness lingering between the knife wound and the port.

"Even the strength you've regained in your hand is remarkable." She holds my right hand flat in her palm and I close in around it. The flex is feeble but it's a far cry from not being able to move anything when I first came to. Might be able to hold and write with a pen some day. I try not to dwell on the moment when it can no longer improve. When I hit the wall.

"I'll see you bright and early in the morning John." Elle lets go of my hand, gathers up the wrappers, and throws everything into the bin to be disposed of.

"You want this?" she points to my journal.

"If you'd be so kind." I remember tossing it harder than I had intended last night, sliding it further back on the stand.

She grabs my journal from the stand and sets it in my lap. She knows I want to write down the plethora of information I've gotten out of Chad. Elle gave it to me in the first place as a safe place to organize my thoughts and I've been using it diligently since. I've never felt the need to try to hide it – Elle's made a point to respect my privacy.

"I have a few new ideas I want to introduce into your PT tomorrow. Then afterwards I'll get you looking like a civil human being again."

"You don't like this?" I drag my hand across my jaw. I'm kind of liking this stubble thing. And with being outside, I'm going to need a beard to fend off the cold.

"You look like you're homeless."

"Maybe that's what I'm going for."

Elle heaves a sigh and shakes her head.

"Goodnight John. Don't be up too late."

"Goodnight Elle."

* * *

A/N: I hope there's some subtleties in the details you can appreciate. Had a rough past 2 weeks where I haven't have much down time to write.


	13. Special Delivery

A/N: Thanks for reading, following, and faving! It's truly motivating, and I'm glad my work can be enjoyed by all of you! Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think of everything!

Soap's making progress. Wrote a good chapter yesterday and looking forward to posting it here soon.

* * *

 **Ch 12: Special Delivery**

It's probably the first time I've dreamed like a normal person since I've been here. And even then, the events don't make any sense. But, there's no anxiety. No killing. No violence. Just overly good feelings.

Elle wakes me up, starting with rubbing the back of my hand and moving up to the inside of my forearm along the dead spot of the scar.

"John, do you plan on sleeping the day away?"

"Maybe." I mumble, half asleep.

"And miss out on a fun day and a hot towel shave?"

Mmm. Tempting. Elle's been consistent when she promises a fun day. Then again…  
"I told you yesterday, maybe I don't want a shave."

"I know you won't say no to a rub down."

Oooh. Jackpot. She knows what I like, and drives a hard bargain. Elle doesn't wait for a response though.

"Come on John, up. Up!"

There's nothing quite like a nurse badgering you to do stuff. It's not even on the level of nagging. Straight up harassment. You can't say "no" either because they control every aspect of your life at this point. You're at their mercy. Their ward, their rules.

"Up!"

Elle has no sense of enjoying the waking hours of morning. I'm starting to think she's one of those highly motivated assholes who's chipper when the sunlight first breaks. Breeze a 2 mile run before breakfast. I used to be that way. Now I'm just out of shape and disgruntled.

By the time I'm up and moving I've changed my mind. The hardest part seems to be getting started in the morning. I know a lot of it has to do with coming down from the high and fending off the withdrawal. Elle's changed the dose for this morning, she's halved the dosage because she wants me extra responsive to her latest test. Also flip-flops the routine -starts with the pampering first before the real work begins. I only allow her to manicure my stubble.

I feel pretty amped up by the time she sets me up for her latest exercise. Stuck somewhere between edgy and optimistic. Elle focuses solely on sensory reflexes. It's back to poking, prodding and tickling, but she concludes that the only areas with lingering loss of feeling are the usual suspects. She says it's all a formality to set a new baseline before she focuses on my dominant hand. The nerve damage has been narrowed down to my wrist and hand. The lameness in my shoulder is from a torn rotator cuff, the elbow still recovering from the bone splinters that pocupined the connecting tendons.

When she pulls out a weird tuning fork she gets my attention.

"You looking to see if I'm deaf now?"

Elle scoffs,  
"You already have a 10% hearing loss. I don't need a tuning fork for that. This is a Rydel seiffer tuning fork, used for vibration sense testing screening for peripheral neuropathy."

"Interesting." It kind of makes sense. "Though I'm pretty sure we've already established there's damage."

"You are correct John. However, I also like to use it for retraining damaged parts of the body to "feel" again. Now look away for me." She adjusts the ends, pinches them closed then quickly releases them. The fork lets out a muted hum, the tips blurring from the vibration. Elle places the handle against the back of my thumb around the joint. I focus on the joint, but I don't register any sensation. Just the pressure on the back of my thumb.

Elle works over every square inch. Pokes a few more times, and tests both hot and cold sensations. By the end of it, from the forearm down feels like it's on fire. She says it's from overstimulation. But there's good news. It's not as bad as she first thought. The majority of the damage is isolated in the thumb, index, middle finger, the tip of my pinky, and the back of my hand. I'm not happy about it, but it gives me direction. I know what, and where I need to focus on.

My day finishes out on a strong note. Elle gets me back outside in the courtyard and takes me over to a new area where we haven't been before. There's so many more buildings to this place. One in particular catches my eye -a full glass house, the upper tiers of glass heavily steamed over. She informs me it's one of the indoor pools they have on site, that one specifically for recreational swimming. It would have been too expensive to retrofit the pool for physical therapy needs, and the primary owners of the ground wanted to preserve the architecture inside, so it was left as is. The PT pool was located toward the eastern end where a more modern glass face extended off one of the buildings. Elle says in the upcoming weeks she'll get me in there when I'm strong enough.

* * *

Day 21

January 6, 2017

Anything I've accomplished today is overshadowed by the news I've been dying to hear. Elle's mood has been rather sober today, more serious than usual. I don't figure out why until after dinner. She takes away the dishes and returns with a cardboard box in her arms.

"I'm sorry it took so long to get this to you John. Operations apparently decided personal articles could get buried in the back rooms with no attempt at organization."

She balances the box on her hip as she drags a stand over to my chair and sets the box down. It looks fairly heavy.

"I was starting to think you forgot about it." Honestly didn't think she'd actually get it for me. I felt as if everyone was trying to hide my own past from me but Whitney.

"Believe me, I didn't. I know it's important to you."

I'm itching to take the lid off, but I don't know what to expect to find inside. Could be a lot of nothing. Could be something significant. I wonder if Elle's already nosed through it.

"All of your personal articles are in there. We did have to remove several items and place them in our vault for safe keeping."

"What items were those?" I watch her pluck a pale yellow sticky note off the lid.

"A Colt M1911, three magazines accompany it, six large capacity magazines for a .308, a menagerie of loose ammunition and several types of explosive devices, and three different knives."

"So all the fun stuff?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you John. We do things a little different here in Iceland. I can't exactly have you stowing a loaded gun under your pillow."

"And why not?" It seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. There had been countless nights I had spent spooning my rifle in the middle of nowhere on reconnaissance. Elle huffs out a sigh. Like she's gearing up for an argument that she's not fully prepared to have. I can see it in her eyes. Feel it. Knowing when to back down isn't always a bad thing. It's called a tactical retreat. Sometimes it's the smartest decision you can make.

"Just no guns or other weapons. Not right now. We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

I concede, begrudgingly. Elle puts her hand on my shoulder and gives a squeeze. She gets why I'm upset. And I can't blame her for doing her job. Part of that means knowing when to say no.

"If you need anything, I'm on call tonight. I'll stop by later to get you to bed."

She gives a small pat on my shoulder and leaves my room. I take a moment to look over the box. Nothing out of the ordinary, plain white cardboard bankers box. The sticky note on top is in Icelandic, but from a quick glance it doesn't look like she left anything out.

I feel optimistic when I lift the lid and set it on the ground.

…

The first thing that hits is the smell. It's not the typical damp smell you expect from something out of storage. It's a wonderful bouquet war.

The first scent I recognize is my own. Anyone who's ever worn a flack jacket or body armor knows what I'm talking about. To anyone else, imagine your work out clothes that you've worn every day for 3 months, and haven't washed it. It's not so bad now because it's dried out, but the moment you put it on and sweat, it's game over. You can never wash the smell out of those synthetic materials after you've practically lived in.

I grab the first item off the top. It's the nylon chest harness. I preferred it over the flak jackets because it was lightweight, and I could throw it over anything. It was easy to get in-to and out-of versus peeling apart velcro panels and lifting over your head -which was an officer safety factor. It also helps distribute the weight across the body compared to hanging off the shoulders like a traditional vest, or a strict duty belt that kills the hips and back. It used to be black. Now it was stained with years of dirt, ash and dust, almost completed greyed out in camouflage. Most of the pockets are emptied out, mostly where the mags and other confiscated items were removed. I'll go through it more thoroughly later. I set it on the floor.

The second item I grab out of the pile is several articles of clothing. The black parka is well worn. Shredded. Scuffed. Singed. It's dark and the material hardened around where there's small holes. Dried blood. It has its own distinct scent of concrete dust, and the metallic sulphur from gunpowder. The acrid chlorine residual of explosives. This jacket has seen a lot of field time. I love it because it wasn't too bulky and had deep pockets. I can see where the flag patches were cut from the shoulder sleeves. No country to call home. No safe haven.

A black base layer long sleeve and pair of BDU pants are wadded up, and for good reason. Completely stiffened with dried blood. The least pleasant smelling. Something between old rusted cast iron and death. Sweet pungent rot. One solider once told me the technical terms -putrescine and cadaverine. The smell of decaying flesh. I check the pants pockets for anything, only to find them filled with fine dust and a few empty shell casings from a pistol. These can definitely be thrown out. I toss those to the opposite side of the jacket and chest rigging.

There's a clump of smaller miscellaneous items. My favorite leg gun holster for the 1911. Black gloves, the finger tips worn so thin they're practically blown out, along with the inseam of the thumbs. Small flashlight, portable radio -battery dead of course, heavy duty zip ties for makeshift cuffs and all other repairs, electrical tape, two field pens, but no notebook. Slim digital phone -screen's shattered and the battery is stone dead.

One disemboweled trauma kit -even the tourniquet is missing. Knee pads -those things were sometimes cumbersome, but a lifesaver in the field. Nothing like kneeling down to get a shard of glass buried in your knee to make you instantly regret your decision not to have them.

My shemagh -I got it years ago when I started touring with the 22nd. It's kind of like a right of passage. It's still on one piece, but it's suffered the same fate of the clothes -petrified in a twisted rope with blood. Looks like it might have been used to staunch the bleeding. I plan on keeping this, too many memories. Just needs a good wash.

At the bottom is my boots and body armor undercarrier. The boots were beat -the soles starting to slick out, laces frayed to exhaustion, and the leather permanently curled. There's a cuff key weaved through the laces and tucked into the base of the joined tongue leather in case of emergencies. The grey material inside the boots is completed stained with blood. I vaguely remember the sensation of my boots feeling soaked, but never walking through any water. I never realized it was my own blood then.

The last item is the ballistic vest undercarrier. It feels frail. There's several holes punching through the kevlar. Even for such a tough material, it's not a 100%. The fabric is broken in and formed after much wearing, and the black material is stained in arches of sweat out salt. When I inspect the undercarrier, small gritty chunks fall out of the pierced holes. I feel the remains of the trauma plates I had installed in the front and back. The ceramic plate is completed pulverized. It's more like a ziplock bag filled with crushed tile. The only thing reminiscent of it being a trauma plate is the steel core. Both are completely destroyed.

The vest hits the ground with an audible thud. I swing back to the rigging and pilfer the pockets one by one. I never considered myself a "pack rat" but occasionally I had collected small mementoes during my travels. Call it what you want, but I hated to admit I was sentimental. The older I got, the worse it seemed to get. I feel something flush inside one of the mag pouch and work on pulling it out.

It's a photo stock paper, folded in half. I wrote something on the back, the ink a bit smudged; _Grand National 2012, Price, Sanderson, Riley. 33/1 Neptune Collenges, by a nose!_

The memory resurfaces. Sergeant Gary Sanderson -aka Roach, my best rookie ever. Lieutenant Simon Riley -the Ghost, and world class asshole. My closest crew serving under the one-four-one.

Price had insisted we go out that year -he had a thing for the ponies. In fact, made it an order. More like an excuse to get piss drunk, and spend a lot of money. Actually, we made money that day. Everyone except Riley. He absolutely refused to bet on a grey horse for some stupid superstition or another. He always had to be difficult. I flip it over.

It's the first visual I've come across. I pick out Price immediately – greyed out and weathered. That mustache…I still don't have an appropriate comment for it. I'm next to him, and flanked by Sanderson, arm and arm, shitfaced and each holding up a fat stack of cash. Riley is sulking in the background, behind the three of us, dual wielding a proper one-finger salute. It's of the few candid pictures you can actually get a good look at his scowling face -in fact, there's a hint of a smile. It was the first time any of us had gone to the races and we had Price as our personal tour guide to the track.

I take a closer look at myself. How much younger I looked. How much younger we all must have looked. I'm rocking a mohawk and the scar absent from my face. Before the mission went awry. Before a piece of shrapnel tried to eat my fucking face. When Price stayed behind…Again he put himself out at risk for _me_.

I can't stand looking at it. Sanderson and Riley are dead. The weight of their deaths is still the heaviest burdened I've continued to bear, and I'm ashamed to admit that even for a moment I had forgotten their names. There was time when I thought I had lost Price. I don't even know if he's still alive.

It's when I find it difficult to breath, I take a moment and hold my breath. Count to four. Breath out to four. Again. And again. A tactical pause. It slows the anxiety but it doesn't stop me from having to fight back the tears. I take a couple hard swallows, clear my throat and smooth out the photograph. Wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. One day I'll be able to face it, but right now…I can't…I can't handle it. I wasn't ready for _**this.**_ _This is exactly what Elle was trying to protect me from._

I feel a lot of **it** coming back. More bits and pieces. Shards is a better term. They're rough jagged memories, and they hurt. Physically manifest themselves as pain. I make quick work to stick the picture in the back of my journal next to the Stranger's letter so I don't have to look at it. Just like last time, I'm avoiding my feelings.

I brave the storm and carefully go through everything before setting it back in the box. Dig deep through the pockets of the clothing. Nothing. I know I would have kept notes or a field journal, but I can't find it anywhere in my gear. Maybe it fell out or got lost in the shuffle while I clung to life in Prague. I know I must have had one. That's why Elle's gift had caught me so off guard. It was so reminiscent of what I once what.

By the end of it, I only throw out the items that are totaled, namely the clothes. I'll hang onto the vest a bit longer. Even if it's rendered useless, I can't part with it. It's a sobering reminder to my mortality.

I pick up my journal and start to write down the findings of my box, and every accompanying thought that conjures up as a result. Jot down what I can remember about Roach and Ghost. About Price and the shenanigans of the 141. After some time my hand starts to cramp up, prompting a break in my writings.

I feel exhausted. Physically and mentally drained. The worst I've felt in a while now. I lean back in the chair and rub my temples with one hand, hoping to stave off the fatigue. I swear I only close my eyes for a minute.

…

There's something warm touching the side of my face.

" _John_. John. I need you to wake up."

* * *

A/N: I found inspiration and necessity for this chapter from my own experience. Your equipment becomes an essential part of you. An extension. Your backup when you have none other. You feel naked without your vest. Yes, they're just items, but they've weathered through every storm with you. And yes, body armor is disgusting.


	14. The Star's Sigil

A/N: Making a jump here on the main story line and some character relationship development. Picking right up from the last chapter.

* * *

 **Ch 13: The Star's Sigil**

" _John_. John. I need you to wake up." It's Elle's voice, and it's just a breath above a whisper.

"What time is it?" The words fall out distorted while I stretch and yawn. I don't want to move. Elle drags her fingers through my hair. It feels so good. It's putting me back to sleep.

"It's past your bedtime. Let's get you up before you hurt your neck."

I feel Elle going hands-on when she tries to move me. Pretty sure I growled at her too, because she starts laughing, taking the fight out of her as she struggles against dead weight.

"Come on you old dog! You'll be much more comfortable in your bed."

"I'm fine right here." The irritation in my voice is very apparent as it is loud. Hindsight, until now I didn't realize how miserable I could be after being woken up. Like, turning into a straight up bear. Wait…did she just call me old?!

"I don't think I heard you right."

"Oh, I'm sure you did John. You can be mad at me later. Come on, get up!"

I don't make it easy on Elle as she finally gets me out of the chair. Surprisingly, she takes me for a quick lap out in the hall to get my legs back under me, then totes me off to bed. She isn't wrong that I'm more comfortable where I can sprawl out, but it doesn't change the principle.

"You're right, I am mad at you."

She brushes it off with a soft chuckle as she smiles down at me. It's disarming.

"That's fine. It means I'm doing my job right. I doubt you want to wear that god awful neck brace again." She tidies up my personal belongings from the floor and puts my journal on the nightstand. When she's finished cleaning, she returns to my bedside and takes my hand, rubbing the back of it. There's something about Elle that I can't place, something genuine. Honest about herself and her work, and she brings out the best in people.

"I moved your box behind the chair. See you in the morning John."

"Thanks Elle."

* * *

Week 4, Day 28, January 13, 2017

It's hard to believe it's almost been a month since I've returned to the world of the living. Elle's made a point to praise me for all the progress I've made. Still infection free, liver function fully operational (surprise surprise with all the pills), forgot how much percent of muscle put on and recovered. Still dependent on pain management, but I'm hitting a leveling point -enough to balance between what I actually need and what I want. And keeping my temper in check. I never though part of my recovery would include purposely antagonizing me. Or maybe I'm just more cognizant of my situation and becoming frustrated with a life of dependency.

Elle never asks me about what I found in my box.

Wednesday had been another fun day of fun and more focused PT exercises, and of course R & R. Hold onto my stubble a for another week and get a few hours with Whitney again. He regales me with more tales from the front lines. Mentions that once he's transferred to a different wing he wants to initiate his own PT program -and not physical therapy, but physical training. Get the soldiers like ourselves back on track. The world's been at war for so long, it's kind of become the only thing we've known. Fight. Train harder. Fight again. If you're knocked down, pick yourself back up and jump into the ring. _Steinn Aflinn_ has been a safe haven for now, but Chad's already thinking of the next level. He plans on re-enlisting if he gets green lighted by his country. If not, he's mentioned getting involved with the independent militia's back home like a Blackwater or something. The man's always chasing rainbows. I admire that quality in him.

I confide in him about some of the stuff I've found while going through my belongings, sorting through the messy emotions left in its wake. Chad and I connect on a level that Elle and I can't. She tries to empathize, but I know Whitney truly grasps what I'm going through, and the two of us trudge through the aftermath of our pasts. When we're bullshitting over our differences of sports, I take a risk and interject our conversation with something I've been dying to ask.

"Chad, can you hand me that?" I gesture to the magazine laying by the window. He grabs it and tosses it my way haphazardly.

"Look like you might need some catching lessons there Johnny-boy. Could give you a few pointers if you'd like."

"It'd be fairer if I wasn't trying to use my bad arm." I was becoming so dependent on my left hand now that it was becoming easier to perform my daily tasks with it. I often had to remind myself to push myself to use my right side to keep forward progress.

"Hand me that marker too."

I can see from the look on his face he's ready to pitch it like he constantly does to that rubber ball.

"Hand it, you fuck, don't throw it."

Chad's snickering as he holds out the sharpie. For a moment he's thinking of pulling some fast shit on me, but holds off. I sketch out the symbol from my encounter with the Stranger. I take another gander at it, trying to decipher what code it could be one last time before pawning it off on Chad. I can't make sense of it.

"Chad, you ever seen anything like this?" I hand him the doodle. He stares at it for a long time, then flips it in every other direction, trying to make sense of it himself.

"What's it supposed to be? This one of those optic illusions?" He holds it out further away.

"I have no clue."

"V6? 76?" He flips it again.

"Fancy 2? 92? Where'd you see this?"

"Funny you should ask. I remember seeing it on a ring somewhere. It kind of stood out to me." I play it vague. If the Stranger is some sort of hired gun, I don't want to involve anyone else and put them at risk too. It almost felt taboo drawing it, as if it was some sort of mark of death.

"A ring? I mean, it looks like something I should know, but can't say where I've seen it."

"Fair enough. I figured I'd ask." Chad examines the sketch a bit longer before handing it off.

Chad grabs the ball and throws it at the wall, catching it on the return. I can tell he's mulling his thoughts over. It seems to have struck something with him too.

"Now you got me thinking about it John. Feel like I've seen that somewhere. Recently too."

We resume shooting the breeze for a while before Elle returns to reclaim me. I rip off the back page where I drew the hex and pocket it. For some reason if the Stranger is still lurking about here, at least it'll minimize involving innocent bystanders like Whitney. Elle takes me out to the courtyard for a nice walk. It's dark out save for the lamplight illuminating the yard, and expectedly cold, but it's such an incredible feeling being outside. Back in my room, while Elle's getting me settle in, I make a risky move and decide to ask Elle about the Stranger's symbol.

"Hey Elle, mind if I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything John. You should know that by now."

I pull out the scrap of paper, smooth it out, and offer it to her.

"You ever see this symbol before?"

She grabs it from my hand and gives it a quick once over and hands it right back with the flattest expression I have ever seen.

"Yeah. It's a zodiac sign."

"Zodiac sign? You mean that birthday shit?" Kind of unusual. I wonder what it's significance was in relation to the Stranger.

"Yeah. The horoscopes and stuff. That's the sigil for Capricorn, the 'sea goat'. That's not your sign though. I think yours is actually the-"

"Sea goat?" I cut her off. There was something there that resonated with the letter.

"Sea goat. Half goat, half fish, or mermaid. They're known for being some of the most determined conservative people. You know someone who's a Capricorn?"

"You could say that." Again, play it vague. Elle's been my number one ally and the person I'm most invested in. I don't want to get her involved either. She's gotten me this far, and her only fault I can hold against her is her trying to protect me from myself. Shelter me from the outside world. She'd practically lived by my side since I arrived in October, and has been there every step of the way since. She knows me in a way hardly anyone else has, or anyone who I ever knew that might still be alive out there. Our relationship of understanding is unique, much like what Whitney and I have. In a world full of people, she's someone I would consider a good friend. I go to steer the conversation elsewhere as I swallow the round of oxy she's handed me.

"When's your birthday Elle?"

"What's it matter to you?" She's playing coy and smiling at me in that sly way she does.

"It's not fair, you know when mine is. Hell, it's stamped on this bracelet and on the top of every chart. I think that constitutes as an invasion of privacy."

"Hahaha, that's cute John. I'm pretty sure you lost your rights to your privacy when you signed up for the military life. And when they dropped you off here."

Oh, and I remember it too. Elle had her hands in places I only gave explicit permission to. That, and when I was absolutely shitfaced a few times and forfeited my consent to my lack of sobriety. Elle's standing over me with the charts and jotting her daily notes down.

"I never asked to be here."

"But aren't you glad that you are?"

God, she knows how to tug on the strings. And the way she's smiling, it does something awful to me. That stupid feeling. She gives me a sense of belonging in a country where I don't. How was I going to argue with being granted a 3rd or 4th pass at life? What was that old saying? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth?

"I am. I wouldn't have you."

…

…

 _What the fuck just came out of my mouth?_

Elle stares at me, a bit slack jawed. I think the shocked look on her face is comparable to the look of embarrassment and sheer stupidity on mine. I don't think there's any recovering from this.

"Well, John, if we're being honest here…I wouldn't have you." She puts her hand on my shoulder, and gives a small squeeze. She's got that doe eyed look, her mouth poised in a cautious smile.

"You've been one of the most remarkable patients I have had the _honor_ to work with in all my years. It's been a humbling experience. I've seen you fight back from the edge of death countless times. I've seen you on your bad days. I've seen you on your good ones. I've had to handle that temper of yours when you absolutely refused to cooperate. You're a warrior, you fight any obstacle in your way. Now that's fortitude, John. You have been an inspiration to _me_."

Elle's turned the table 180. I don't know what to say. It was bad enough I've said the unthinkable, but now Elle's just paved over that in heartfelt confession like I'm some goddamn hero. And it triggers something.

"Don't bullshit me Elle." The words don't come out nice, and I'm feeling a little abrasive. Maybe it's because she friend-zoned me. Maybe because praise has always been a sore subject for me.

"You really can't take a compliment, can you?" She teases.

"You're right, I can't." I find myself snapping at her. "I'm not some glorified hero like everyone thinks I am. I do my job, that's it. I didn't ask questions. People died because of me Elle. Not for me."

I don't even know where that came from. It's a raw feeling, like an open wound doused with alcohol then ground with salt.

Elle's whole demeanor has changed, but she keeps her hand firm on my shoulder. She's searching my face for something she can't find. Like she's reaching for some part of me lost at sea.

"You need to stop blaming _yourself_ , John." There's a waver in her voice. She looks sad.

"You have no idea what it's like Elle. Don't try to tell me how I should feel." I can actually admit I'm angry at her. She has no right. No one has that right. Only me.

"I **do** know John. I see it every day. I see it in the faces of my dying patients. I see in my staff. I see it in you. I know what it's like to be responsible for someone's life, and what it's like to lose someone. I make those decisions **every** **day** and learn to deal with the consequences of my actions. I don't need you to lecture me on the burden you're carrying. I am here to help you, and to try to stop you from going down the road I've seen too many walk down."

Elle eases her grip on my shoulder,

"I don't want to lose you John. Not to yourself."

She lets go.

"Goodnight."

Elle shoves my chart back on the wall, turns her back on me and walks out. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was glad she left when she did. My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw so hard. I was mad, that kind of reckless hostility that I vaguely remember during my first few conscious days in this place. That kind of anger that could put a fist through a wall. Or the kind that allowed you to shoot your way through a max security base seeking revenge for your murdered comrades. My blood pressure is skyrocketing.

Given a good hour to myself, I have time to brood and let the situation cool off. I never meant to raise my voice to Elle. Not like that. I know during out talks over lunch and therapy, Elle had gone over some of the rolling waves of emotions I'd possibly be facing. Between PTSD, painkillers, the daily trials of my disabilities, and a slowly resurfacing past, she warned me I could be in for a world of hurt. Chad had mentioned his own bouts with anger, with remorse, with regret. Still dealing with them, but in more creative ways. I had done everything to heed his advice and Elle's, but no plan is foolproof. You can't expect the unexpected.

"She's still crying you know."

 _That voice._

* * *

A/N: I feel like I have a knack from riding the high and railroading it into the lows. But it's what you'd expect when you have unexpecetd triggers that can set a person off.


	15. Old Goat

A/N: John's getting himself some answers in a heated exchange.

* * *

 **Ch 14: Old Goat**

"She's still crying you know."

 _That voice._

It's almost as ominous as the one's from my dreams, my memories. I snap to attention, my eyes on the figure in the doorway. The Stranger. Her words hit me with a delay. I'm ramped up for a fight in 3 seconds, but suddenly feel like someone's sucker punched me. For a moment I'm speechless.

"He said you were a such a sweetheart -not a heartbreaker. Who have you become Captain MacTavish?"

I get my bearings. Maybe this time she's here to kill me.

"Who the hell sent you?"

"Oh, how you wound me Captain. Such harsh language." The Stranger mocks.  
"I've come to deliver a message from a mutual friend of ours. I'm not here to incite an altercation."

"I don't trust you."

"Nor should you have reason to."

The Stranger flicks out an envelope from inside her lapel as quick as a switchblade, and holds it out pinched between her index and middle finger. She's smart enough to keep out of my reactionary distance. Before I accept it, I take a closer look at the bold ring on her finger. It's the sigil. The sea goat. ' _Don't mind the old goat, you know how stubborn they can be.'_ It kind of makes sense now.

"You're the old goat he was referring to?" I warily grasp the edge of the envelope and pull it from her hold. It looks to be the same like the first one.

"He called me _old_?! I'm going to have a few choice words with him. I prefer Capricorn." She laughs, and it's a cutting sound. The shadow of a Holocaust survivor's nightmare.

Her answer is still ambiguous.

"Capricorn?" I feel like I'm grasping at straws. She probably knows it too.

"I've gone by so many names I don't remember my real one. But _that one_ …that one I fancy myself best."

"Who's your handler?" I'm onto her, she's no ordinary hired gun, nor a courier. She's a spy. But for who is a better question. In the age of technology, they were dying breed. Anyone is espionage knows that some of the best kept secrets are still reserved for quiet dinners and pillow talk. An antique technique. A vanishing art.

"I'd have to kill you if I told you."

"I might have to kill you if you don't." This prompts her to snort out a chuckle.

"Threaten me again and I'll cut an eye out for good measure. I'm glad to see you have so much spirit left in you."

"Who _is_ your handler?" I enunciated each work to make a point.

"I go where the lines blur. I can assure you though, we fight for the same cause."

Not necessarily a foe, not necessarily a friend either. Not going to give a straight answer regardless. Even if she did, she'd probably be lying. I start tearing open the envelope cautiously. I never take my eyes off her. My contact on the other side obviously trusted her enough to give her a written note and send her off into the wild blue yonder in hopes of finding me. And she did. This Capricorn was obviously good at her job. Maybe too good.

Inside the envelope is another folded piece of paper. I take my eyes off the Stranger only for a moment to read the contents.

 _The hunt for Kingfish is coming to an end, he's run out of places to hide. Sound the trumpets. Wish you were here. Imagine the look on his face if he saw you. When things settle down, we'll find you._

 _With love,  
-N_

Kingfish. Makarov. That prick was still alive. And he was in their sights. Only the one-four-one had that kind of tenacity. I hold the letter out, pointing to the moniker at the end.

"Who's this?"

"Since it's obvious that you're still living in the shadows, I'll give you this one. That's our good friend Nikolai." She shifts her weight to the other leg, and there's a sympathetic change in her tone.  
"He never once gave up on you. Believe me, he had to dig hard to find me again. He dug even harder to find you."

Nikolai. I don't even think that was his own name. It was just the callsign he's used since I've met the plucky Russian. One of the craziest pilots I've met. A good wingman too.

"How do you know him?"

"Nik and I go way back. I was in the information business long before he was born. I met him on the front lines when he was young strapping solider, like yourself."

She's older like I thought. Never thought the Russians would get in bed with the Germans. Then again, I remember Nikolai being a strong advocate against the Iron Curtain politics. And no German wanted Russia meddling in their country's business again.

"Can you get a message out?"

"I expected you wanted as much. Make it quick. I have a boat to catch."

I scribble directly on the back of the envelope.

 _-  
See you on the other side.  
2073521_

I hand it off. Before I let her take it, I yank it back. There's so much I want to ask her.

"Who else knows about me? About this?"

Capricorn rolls her eyes and sighs. For her, this is all just a game. She's a big fish in a little pond -and not in the traditional sense. She's an apex predator. Maybe even a sleeper agent.

"Myself, Nik. That charming nurse of yours. Your buddy Whitney's in the same situation as you. Couple of you around here like that actually, falling between the cracks. There isn't much that gets off this island, especially not past these walls. _I make sure of that_."

Not afraid to silence songbirds. Has me wondering how many people's throats she already opened to keep them quiet. What the hell was going on out there? I offer the envelope and let her take it from me this time.

"Snitches get stiches?" I remember Chad using the phrase recently. Americans had their own colorful language, and it tends to rub off when you hang around them long enough. Capricorn holds a single finger up to her mouth, using the universal sign for 'silence.' The tip of her finger is pointing directly to the notched scar on her upper lip. The rules applied to her too.

"And end up in ditches. Or, they have a tendency to find their way on the bottom of the Atlantic. I'm just saying, _hypothetically_ of course."

The Stranger tucks the envelope into her jacket. There's a holster hanging off her right hip. Yet she always leads with her left. Ambidextrous? Something to note for later, in case I need to go hands on with her if she does decide to make a move on my life. Before she goes, I pry for more information.

"How will I get in contact with you?"

"You don't. I'll find you. Hau rein, Kapitän." Capricorn offers her left hand for a friendly shake. Yet from her tense poise I see she's ready to draw with her right. Her grip is strong, firm, her release quick.

Just like, she was gone, as quickly as she had came.

* * *

A/N: The number I have John sign with the ID number from his dog tags. To any ordinary person, it's a string of numbers, but to his good friends and allies, they'd understand the significance.


	16. Every Prophet in His House

A/N: Sorry for the hiatus, work has me busy something fierce. It was also hard coming off of such a heavy heated chapter. The title of this chapter is from one of my favorite shows, _Carnivàle_. A haunting line, with an equally intriguing meaning -which can be found below. Hope you enjoy.

Thank you to my viewers, and especially my reviewers: **Baffled Queen** , **Little Yellow Sunflower** , **wittingcube3** , our _**Guest**_ , **Swarosvala** , and the countless readers who find their way here. I appreciate every one of your reviews, and knowing people are reading this brings me joy. Thank you!

* * *

 **Ch 15: Every Prophet in His House**

It's been a while since I've had a sleepless night. My blood's still running hot. My emotions are getting the better of me and I don't like it. It's not me. This was not battle I was used to fighting. Guerilla warfare of the mind.

I'm mad for a lot of reasons. Knowing my old friends were on the heels of Makarov had me feeling like a sidelined player. I didn't care what it would take -I'd give anything to have a chance to put a bullet through that psychopath's skull. Capricorn's haughty air rubbed me the wrong way and I didn't trust her, yet my hand was forced if I wanted help. I'm mad at Elle because she's patronized me with that whole attitude that she knows best. Like she could ever understand what I've lived through.

I'm upset with myself because I yelled at her. Demonized her. Took her support as a personal attack.

I try to work on an apology before she gets in. I have nothing. Nothing good at least. No poetic words. No persuasive speeches. This would be a job for Whitney. He had a way with language, for better or for worse maybe, but he knew how to connect. Didn't matter if it was man, child, pet or a damn rock.

The thought train is derailed when Elle breaks the threshold of the doorway. I still have nothing. I half expected her to send someone else in. Yet here she was. Armed with a calm look. It's still there though, in her eyes. The 1000 yard stare, the drooping corners of her mouth, a submissive cower in her shoulders.

"Good morning John."

Was there anything good about it?

"Look, Elle-"

"I've got a full schedule for you today, including a physical battery exam. Let's get a move on."

'Physical Battery' is a suiting term for today. I remember a while back Elle mentioning these being weekly. Elle may not have laid a finger on me, but with her behind the wheel of my regiment, she could extort any amount of suffering on me. After our brief blow-out yesterday I'm able to focus that anger into something creative. Call it pulling a Whitney. I push every limit until it feels like everything is either going to snap, or break. I'm checked out by the end of it, but feeling accomplished.

After my trials by fire are done, I hit the shower and I allow myself a few extra minutes to soak. The hot water is short of scalding, but it's barely enough to put a dent in the stiffness that's setting in. I'm definitely going to be a cripple tomorrow. Elle retires me back to my bed when the evening rolls around, where within 10 minutes of our close out procedures, everything is tightening up. I feel feeble as I transpose the final numbers from my test into my journal. It's a huge improvement from the first one.

"How are you feeling after today's test?" It's the first bit of casual conversation she's struck up with me.

"Terrible." I yawn, "But good. It helps put it all in perspective when it's on paper."

"I know. I'm going to have to restructure your PT schedule I had built after today's exposition. I don't want to rush it, but you're far more capable than I expected at this point, especially considering the extent of your initial injuries."

"That's if I make to morning." I already resigned to fact I felt like death. I hear her laugh.

"Don't be so dramatic John. It's not very becoming of you."

"Who said I was being dramatic?"

"You're going to be fine." She's smiling again. And not that 180° smile. A genuine one.

"Listen, Elle, I wanted to apologize, for yesterday…" It's not an eloquent opening but it's a foot in the door. At least she's listening. Still smiling.

"John," she starts with a sigh, and I brace for a double edged remark that never comes.

"I know you're going to have a bad day." She lays her hand just below my collar bone on my chest, giving an encouraging rub.  
"Just try to let me know next time. Now, get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

Day 37, Sunday January 22, 2017

There's been a hushed chatter this morning. A certain low buzzing energy that fills the hallways. During my morning PT on the stationary bike, I catch a brief glimpse of what must be causing all the stir from the news cast. By lunch I go directly to Elle. She informs me that the world is finally under a true cease fire. Vladimir Makarov is dead. Apparently all this went down at the Hotel Oasis in the Arabian Peninsula. No details surrounding the event have been released to the public, but I have my suspicions who might have been involved.

The news is bittersweet. I will never deny that the world will be a better place without Makarov. But we need the world to have people like him in it.

He exploited the flaws in our leaderships. Proved that one determined man, hungry for power and driven by his own self desires, could accomplish anything, and it took an entire planet to bring him down to his knees. Even then, he didn't go down without a fight. Makarov was reckless though. A mad dog off his leash. Under the right conditions, he possessed the potential to be a powerful world leader and do right by his countrymen. Instead, the environment he was in nurtured malice and revenge. Makarov was a few hairs shy of being a contemporary Hitler.

The civilian side finds it hard to grasp the genius behind the madness. The horrible admiration derived from people like Makarov. Like the cop and the criminal, it was an ever endless game of cat and mouse. If it weren't for bad guys like Mao, Hussein, Zakhaev, we wouldn't have the military powers we do. Like the Cold War, having silent enemies drove us to arm ourselves. People like Makarov made us actually step up and react. It brought people together, like myself, Price, Ghost, Roach, MacMillan, the members of one-four-one, Delta Force members -even guys like Whitney -the most amazing and skilled individuals that become your family when nothing else is left. The military is a lifestyle, it's not something you can just walk away from easily. And when it's all over, it leaves us abandoned, soldiers without a war, without a purpose. Peace was as foreign to us as civilian life.

War brought out the best in us, and the worst in us.

* * *

 _-Somewhere in Europe-_

"You're on time." A male voice lulled from behind the large metal desk in Russian.

"Is that a problem?" countered the newly arrived female, shaking the thick snow from her faded blonde hair.

"You're never on time. You're either early. Or late." He eyed her incrediously in the low light, taking a drag from his cigarette, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"You have a problem with everything I do. You're so suspicious, Yevgeny."

"I get paid to be suspicious."

"As do I." The woman leaned across the desk, plucking the cigarette from the Russian's mouth, snuffing the stub out on the surface.  
"You need to quit. They're going to kill you."

"Where were you this week?" Yevgeny pressed, a bit irritated by the wasted cigarette and ignoring the taunt. This time he reached slowly under the desk for something tucked away in the drawer.

"I do have other clients, you know."

"Aren't you worried about any conflicts of interest?" He hesitates to surface what he's pulled from the drawer.

"The less we now about each other, the better. It's not in our business to ask those sort of questions of one another. Rule number two." The female gave pause, her lips parting into a cruel smile, reading the Russian's stoic face. Carefully, Yevgeny placed two short glasses on the desktop, following up with a half consumed bottle of vodka and pulling the cork. Once the two glasses were dispensed he handed one to his counterpart, each taking a sip in resonating silence.

"You were worried." She accused with a sharp, condescending laugh, feeling the Russian's steely gaze fall on her.

"It doesn't matter what I was, Zvezda."

"Or are you jealous?" She took another swig of her drink and finished it off, settling the empty glass back on the desk. His nickname for her was adorable and carried with it an affection he wouldn't admit to. Without asking Yevgeny refilled the empty tumbler, pushing it back across the way.

"You still consorting with that fellow?"

Warily, the woman picked up the drink, swirling its contents for a moment, her eyes watching the light shimmer off the surface.

"You aren't the only Russian in my life. You know how it goes Yevgeny. Every prophet in his house."

"You are poorly misquoted."

"And cheap vodka is best served over ice." the remark was clipped, harsh. "Speaking of ice, how is our queen, now with Makarov out of the picture?"

"Upset. Crying."

"Good."

Yevgeny shot her a hard look. It didn't go unnoticed to his _Zvezda_.

"She needs to let it out. She's facing enough problems. You should be there with her. Where's Midas on things?"

"Making progress. As always, it takes time to coordinated everything. Expect an update soon."

"And Jericho?" The drink is down in one gulp, clattering back on the metal desktop.

"Eleven hundred strong."

"He _does_ make good on his promises."

"Will you?"

A chilled silence passed between them.

"Don't I always?" _Zvezda_ leaned across the desk, lifting Yevgeny's chin so their eyes could meet in a more friendly fashion, her thumb brushing along his bottom lip.

"And yet you always make me worry about you." Yevgeny finally smiled, an unspoken moment passing between them. He picked her hand off the table, and kissed on the back of it, the flat gold ring catching the light.

* * *

A/N: I'm lazy and used an online translator. Thus, _Zvezda_ is supposed to mean "Star" in reference to Capricorn's name.

As for the chapter title, it's a speculative derivative of the verse: _Jesus said to them, "A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home."_

...which translated means:

 _Then Jesus told them, "A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his relatives and his own family."_

I wanted it to reflect the tensions of the world. In their home countries, these spies might be poorly viewed for the not-so-glamorous work they do, possibly traitors to their native roots. Yet to others, they become hailed heroes for the dirty work their willing to do, and the words they speak. And to me, it carries a sort of, _"to each their own"_ feeling that definitely applies between friends/rivals.


	17. Mess with the Bull

A/N: I'm sorry for the fluff and fill chapters, but they're so much fun! Work has been a blur lately. But these "scenes" just kind of naturally blossom and take their course.

Thank you again to my viewers and reviewers ❤ I truly do cherish your time for reading and leaving a comment.

Here we have a little touch on the main story. Trying to bring in our other players from the COD story. Got some ideas for the next chapter already swirling! :D

* * *

 **Ch 16: Mess with the Bull…**

Somewhere in the UK, approximately 2000 hrs…

Nikolai found himself in the company of several youths from the S.A.S. in Hereford, indulging on a night on the town. It was yet another opportunity to celebrate their long overdue victory. He had tried to convince Price for the umpteenth time to come out, but had been met by a growled tempered response that hinged on a hair trigger from being a full blown fist fight.

"Let sleeping dogs lie." He muttered under his breath to himself, pounding down the next shot.

"I think a sleeping dog should be kicked awake. How else is he to guard his master from harm?"

Nikolai knew the familiar timbre and cynicism all too well.

"My dear," He jumped out of his seat to greet the newcomer.  
"You look radiant as ever."

"You called me _old_ Nikolai. An _old goat_ to be specific."

"And yet wise and majestic as ever. I could have always called you much worse." His laughter was contagious, causing the German's smile to arch from cheek to cheek in reply. They exchanged a heartfelt hug, swapping affectionate kisses.

"You always know how to make a woman smile." She chuckled.

"You are a sight for sore eyes. I didn't expect you to come back so soon."

"I made my visit short, sweet and punctual. The more I keep Yevgeny at bay, the more interested he is."

"It is not kind to string him along. Cut him loose if you do not plan on investing."

"I cut you loose a lifetime ago Nikolai, and yet we keep coming back to one another." Capricorn gave a wistful smile to the Russian, her tone falling back to its traditional whispering noble accent,  
"I'm past my prime. He knows it. Now it's my time to play the predator. Nikolai, let's find somewhere more, _private._ We have business to discuss."

Nikolai waved to the bartender and motioned towards a corner booth where he escorted his long time friend. Once settled in and making a sweep of the room with her eyes, Capricorn pulled the crumpled envelop from inside her jacket, passing it flat and facedown to the Russian. Nikolai picked up the paper, rubbing his hand across the bridge of his nose as he read the brief transcript.

"How is he doing?" Nikolai asked, keeping his tone flat.

" _Oh_ , he's feisty. You know I enjoy a challenge."

"You mess with the bull, you get the horn, my dear. I would advise against antagonizing him." He warned. Nikolai knew his Soap all too well. Stubborn, hard-headed, tenacious, slow to anger, and simultaneously the most kind-hearted soul you'd ever meet. Held his friendships in the highest of honor. Betray him, and you made an enemy for life.

"Luckily I have my own set of horns."

"I would hate to see any harm come of my favorite Fräulein." Nikolai fussed, pouting at his German ally.

"Don't use that word. It makes me sound old." She chided.

"You are old, and you should be proud. Silver hairs purchase wisdom. There is not many of your kind left who have been so fortunate to remain free."

"You mean _alive_. Not only am I old, and past my prime, I'm past  expiration. I try to remain a few steps ahead of the competition though. The noose gets a little tighter each day."

A waitress wafted over with two identical drinks and set them on the table. Nikolai gave a quick thanks while Capricorn gave her a solid once over. She was always assessing the next threat.

"Your young bull is well on his way Nikolai. I spent a few hours peeking through his records. You'd be amazed what modern medicine is capable of."

"I think that's reserved for doctor-patient privilege only."

"I personally carted his ass, _and his corpse_ through customs. I deserve a little reward for granting his safe passage both ways."

"You've always pushed the envelope."

"That's why I'm so good at my job. The boy is…" Capricorn struggled to find the words, tapping her index finger against the table,  
"He's going to need a lot of help. He needs to stay put until he gets his feet fully under him. He's got the right kind of support where he is now. But he's not all there in the head."

Nikolai took a hard swallow of his drink, the ice chinking against the glass.  
"What do you mean?"

"Clever enough to put two and two together and realize I'm not the big bad wolf he thought I was. But, he's edgy. Doesn't quite remember a lot, though he's coming along rather nicely. He'll need time, Nik. You can't expect someone who's been pushed to the brink so many times to come back whole so quickly. If ever." She cleared her voice, taking a graceful sip from her drink.  
"Otherwise, all is quiet on the Western Front."

"That is good news, no?"

"Not necessarily. My counterpart expects something. However, on the Eastern Front, the far East, much is brewing. Eleven hundred strong in Serbia. Plans for financial backing are in the winds. The Dragon Lady is very upset you stole her man from her. I expect her to make moves. And when she does, it's going to be **big**."

Nikolai couldn't help but snicker at the commentary.

"You don't call her that to her face, do you?"

"Not if I want to live. Hydra has a nicer ring to it. Kingfish's following is much like one of those beasts. You cut one head off, another rears up to takes its place. This movement is something you need to eradicate in one fell swoop. Try to pluck it apart by pieces, and another power will emerge from the ashes. Ultranationalists are like weeds."

"I can tell you this, my Fräulein," Nik smiled when he saw Capricorn's face cringe in disapproval, the sly grin falling and her grey starlight eyes narrowing.  
"We cannot wait for such an opportunity. Resources and man power too thin. Men are tired of fighting. This is the first time many of these faces have known peace. It is hard to justify force when there is nothing but whispers. I need proof if I am to convince anyone."

"All in good time Nikolai. That's why I tell you these things now so you have the opportunity to prepare. The wheels of justice turn slow, but grind fine."

"I suspect you're building your case. Remember, I need something solid when you do deliver."

"I always do Nik. The day I don't, well…don't even bother sending a search party. You'll know what happened. I'll be around in a few weeks so you can pass along new word to the young bull."

"Good. I'll have something a little more substantial for him."

"Have you told Price yet?"

"I have not. After today's conversation, I need to rethink my approach. This news will not break gently on him."

"The old dog and pup are more alike than they like to admit."

" _Too alike_. When you work with both of them, they will drive you crazy with their stubbornness." Nikolai huffed out a sigh and pocketed the envelope.  
"Are you staying in town tonight, my Fräulein? Or do you prefer old goat?"

"I prefer Capricorn, just as _**you**_ prefer Nikolai. I think you like calling me old goat. You Russian's are known for your uncanny affection for the hoofed kind. You want me to bray like billy in bed too?"

"I'd like it if you quit busting my balls and take a break from work. Let's us celebrate the small victories first. A toast. To the many good men and women we lost. May they find glory in the afterlife."

Together, Nikolai and Capricorn raised their glasses.

* * *

Day 57, Monday February 4, 2017

Week 9

I can't believe it's been nine weeks already. Nine conscious weeks in Iceland, nine weeks in a coma. Eighteen weeks out of the field too long.

It's not all that bad though. Coming to terms with my present situation has been a bit of a struggle, but with the company I keep and the busy schedule Elle has me on, there's little time to dwell and self loath.

One of the best things she's introduced is the pool. It's the next phase before she starts adding weights, and calisthenics. Bonus points because the water is heated. Iceland has a plethora of natural hot springs, and the older of the two pool houses was generously built over one. The newer physical therapy facility taps into the geothermal spring, making it an ideal cost effective situation. There's also a different instructor for the pool sessions, giving Elle a break from us.

And it's a regular social event. Elle's arranged for Chad and I to attend together, and I get to meet a few other wayward souls of the War that have been calling _Steinn Aflinn_ home. Jody Johnson -J.J. or Jo-Jo for short, a crazy bastard Australian S.A.S.R. who was caught up in the radiation blast with some wicked scarring across his body. He's one of the longest residing patients here. Needless to say like almost all the Australians I've met, he's bloody mad and lacking filters on anything that comes out of his mouth. There's Neil Lattimer, an English fellow and S.R.R. [Special Reconnaissance Regiment] member -a sister company to the S.A.S.'s 22nd who is hard-nosed and probably the most well grounded guy I've had the opportunity to encounter. Then there's Chancellor Stratton, -or as everyone calls him Chance -another Yank born and bred in the deep south territory of Louisiana with a heart for booze, good "soul food" and the blues. The kid's a straight up farm boy who signed up for the Marine Corps to carry on family tradition. I swear he's pulling my leg when he starts talking about trudging through swamps and wrestling alligators, but Chad assures me the South does things differently.

What starts as PT usually closes out with shenanigans and makeshift water polo. Chad's got a wicked arm on him and he's designated goalie every time to level the playing field. His coaching background is very apparent when he organizes the lot of us into teams and establishes the rules. Even spends a bit of time to show techniques and starts teaching me how to throw with my left.

After one afternoon session of pool PT and water sports, Chad and I are attempting to work on pitching a tennis ball with my right arm. The key word was "attempt." My rotator cuff reminds me it's not 100 percent. One good pitch and I feel like I've ripped something, but Chad has me laughing through the pain.

"You sure you were special forces Jonny-boy? If that were a live one we'd all be dead."

It was the truth. I remember we used to practice our grenade throws all the time. It wasn't just about distance. It was about speed and accuracy. Sometimes you needed to throw one hot and fast through an open window of a moving vehicle. Others need hang time so they'd detonate at the right moment behind enemy barriers. One miscalculation and you'd either be having a face full of shrapnel, or have blinded yourself with a flashbang.

"If you only knew the half of it." I grab the back of my shoulder as a twinge of pain radiates down to my elbow.

"I know what it's like to blow a shoulder out. That's why I had to stop pitching for a while. It killed me every day not being out on the ballfield."

There's a bunch of commotion at the other end of the pool. Elle's come back with Jakob ready to rally the troops and J.J.'s asking her something poolside. I already see where this is going, and she does too, but a moment too late. There's a high pitch squeal and a large wave a water that's sloshed in Elle's face and all over the floor. It's easy to recognize the thrall of curse words berating him in her native tongue and the crazy bastard's laughing as he swims out of harm's reach. I'm surprised when Elle flips him off. She's slicking the wet hair from her face when she finally reaches Chad and myself.

"You better not be setting my patient back Mr. Whitney." She warns him when she sees me still holding my shoulder. The whole front of her grey shirt and thighs of her bottoms are soaking wet from the amphibious assault. Jakob remains at the other end, retrieving the out-of-bounds ball and hitting it back into play.

"Wouldn't harm a hair on his head, doll." Chad makes his voice sound holier than thou, holding one hand up in mock oath, the other clasped over his heart. A real Boy Scout.

"He hasn't done anything worse than what you've already inflicted on me Elle. Don't think I've forgotten that first day on the stairs."

Or that day I was so hellbent they had to pump me full of sedatives. In hindsight, it's all been for the better. Elle wasn't lying when she said I'd be my own worst enemy.

"And yet here you are John. Each day, one step closer." The journey of a 1000 miles has never rung so true. She smiles at me, something proud in the way her lips upturn, but still in a modest fashion. Elle directs the conversation towards Chad but never breaks her stare with me.

"I come bearing good news Mr. Whitney."

"Wait a minute. Hold it right there. You call Johnny-boy by his first name all the time, but you never address me by mine." There's a touch of resentment overshadowed by his pout, but whether it's against Elle or myself, I'm not certain. Elle breaks eye contact, not without first giving a roll of her eyes, dedicating her attention towards Chad.

"Alright. _Charles_." It's icy. Her tone is firm and instantly devoid of the friendly warmth, arms folding across her chest. She's used that voice with me more than enough times to let me know I've pushed her kindness and patience too far. Chad physically winces, and Elle takes note.

"Your request has been accepted by the board and approved. Expect further details on the arrangement within the week."

And just like that the scowl is gone. Replaced with something comparable to a look of disbelief. Of awe. As if God himself had just spoken to him -and Chad wasn't exactly the God-worshipping, _**or**_ for that fact, a God-fearing kind of guy. His response is the most humbled I've heard yet.

"And you came all the way down here to tell me that?" There's a waver in his voice, as if something precious is about to be ripped from him fingers.

"Of course. I wanted to deliver the message personally, and make sure you heard it first thing." Elle backs off on the tough act, everything in her demeanor relaxing. Just like your typical drill instructor, the act is really just a sign of love -tough love, that is.

"I appreciate it Elle. From the bottom of my heart."

I find myself fascinated by the quiet power Elle wields. How with just her posture and words -not even her words, but her with her tone, the air she carriers herself– she takes over a room. In our line of works it's called Command Presence, and your first line of defense. It describes someone whose demeanor, nothing more than with their mere presence, leaves no doubt they are someone to be respected. And the control. Elle doesn't need to flex her muscles to let everyone know who's boss. It's something else she does that allows her to execute and maintain the order.

"You hear that motherfucker?!" Chad's voice is back to its usual boisterous gravelly self.

Apparently I must have been gawking, because Chad punches me in the shoulder -my bad shoulder- and the dormant defense tactics spring back to life in a split second. I get a solid grip on his wrist with my good side, and start to roll him into an arm-bar take down. Not exactly something I've practiced with my left. When I get my hands on him, I start to realize I've overestimated myself and my abilities, and have greatly underestimated Chad. He's nice enough _not_ to clock me with his elbow, but when he breaks his grip he gets right into it. Bloody fucking Rangers. Always over the top.

There's a lot of commotion and water splashing everywhere, hooting and jeering from one end, and Elle yelling over all of it to break it up. Chad's got himself behind me and his big forearm coils under my chin and around my neck. It doesn't take much for him to flex and press on the carotid, just enough to give a taste of that faint feeling to let me know he's got the upper hand. There's nothing I hate more than being made an example of.

There's a proper way to get out of this kind of position. Between the water and Chad having the better leverage on me, there's limited options. So I do the next best thing -use my head.

It's enough to stun Chad. Enough to get his arm loose from around my neck where I can break away from it. When I whirl back around he's holding his left eye, yet he's laughing so hard you'd think he was ready to piss himself.

"You mad Johnny-boy?" He's snickering, pulling his hand away from his left eye. An angry bruise is already settling in, a small cut in his brow. Nothing phases this guy. He extends his right hand out for a truce. I don't trust it. With the adrenalin dump crashing down, I feel the searing burn in my shoulder. I was in **no mood** , and in no shape for shenanigans.

"You pull some bloody bullshit, I'll kill you." It's a threat, but not a promise. Fueled by anger and pain. Apprehensively, I take his surrender. No funny business. Chad's learned how far he can push me before I react.

"Heh, I'm sorry man. I didn't think about your shoulder. Just got all excited. You still got those moves Johnny-boy, crippled and all. Guess they _do_ teach you new-jacks something after all."

"Just wait, Chad. When I'm done with all this rehabbing nonsense and get back into my old routine, you'll be in for a world of hurt."

"That a challenge?"

"Might be."

Guys love competition -that's why sports appeal to us. Especially one where we get to show off our skills and prowess. Even better when you hail from some of the most notorious military branches of badass. However, our warden thinks differently.

"There will be no such things happening under my watch. I'm not wasting my time to fix you boys up just so you can have a schoolyard thrown down to prove who's the most macho."

Elle's scowling at the both of us. Safe to say neither of us feel bad about the brief altercation. It actually felt invigorating. Like I had a piece of my old self back that I thought I had lost along the way. We were weapons of war and meant to be used, not to sit idle.

"You have no shame. Either of you." Elle scolds, but the two of us can only shrug and smile at her displeasure. She realizes she has no control over our domain of military lifestyles. It was the same discipline that either harbingered excessive neatness, or tuned you into the biggest sandbagger.

"Time to move out gentlemen."

* * *

A/N: Chad's got a special delivery waiting for him. We also get to peer a little into our boys back on the 141 front. I got some fun ideas for the next upcoming chapters 😃

If you couldn't tell, I draw a lot of inspiration from age old phrases, and after the one regarding messing with the bull, I dug into my favorite astrology book and rediscovered one of my favorite lines describing Taureans, and I instantly thought of Soap. It provided a lot of inspiration for his character to develop beyond the COD screen.


	18. D-Day, Queen's Court

A/N: Shit gets real here! Expect this to be a 2 part event chapter. A little humor and some significant meat on the bones of the main story arch. Also, google up the _Buzludzha_ monument to get an idea for later in the chapter.

* * *

 **Ch 17: D-Day, Queen's Court  
**

Day 59, Monday February 13, 2017

Did I ever mention how much I hated dogs?

Yeah, pretty sure I have. Like a thousand times over. A fact _so well known_ you could probably google that shit. And _this one_ is _**no**_ exception.

The stupid mutt lets out a bark and weaves his way between Chad's knees looking for attention. But he keeps eyeballing me.

….

Let's hit rewind. Start at the beginning of the day, and see where shit went wrong.

….

Elle's got Whitney and myself hitting the PT room together on an unofficial "leg day." Stretches, squats, light leg presses, resistance work, and the stationary bicycle just to name a few. She's let her protégé take the lead when she steps out for a phone call. Once Jakob's stepped out of earshot, Chad strikes up an interesting conversation as always.

"You know what tomorrow is Johnny-boy?" Chad's leaning back on the cycle and juggling three tennis balls. Show off. The swelling around his brow is starting to dissipate, but it's left a nasty shiner in its wake that covers a good portion of the left socket.

"No Chad, enlighten me."

"Fuckin D-Day."

Even I know when D-Day is. I can't stop myself from shaking my head.  
"You're off by a few months laddie."

"Get your head out of your ass and get ready to bury it in a pair of tits. It's D-Day motherfucker! Tomorrow, pronto!"

"I swear to- I really can't dignify your nonsense with a response." Conversations with Chad can be…mentally taxing to say the least. Entertaining, but exhausting.

"No need to. You'll be waist deep in so much Icelandic pussy when the Cavalry comes riding through, you'll be lucky to get a breath of air in. Why do you think I work on cardio so much?"

"I've got bigger things to focus on than getting laid." Like getting back to where I was physically and back home -if that was even an option at this point. Not that I didn't like the girls and the distraction they brought. When I was held up in the Russia hospital after my first serious brush with death, I couldn't deny I had strayed from the path a few times. Dangle a piece of meat in front of a starving dog's face long enough, he's going to go for it.

Chad stops juggling and starts chuckling in that deep gruff way he does. It's ominous, and can only mean our conversation is going to derail something fierce. What ungodly hell did I just unleash on myself?

"Oh that's right. You got a date with pound-town and Miss Elle."

"Where even do you come up with this shit?" I throw my hands up at his unfounded accusation.

"The boys and I have a pool started. Ten to six odds says you get a pity fuck by the end of tomorrow night."

"Really Chad? You seriously need to get out of your room more." If this is what boredom looked like, I needed to put a bullet in my head now and save myself from slipping into the slow progressive decay towards the funny farm. The fact that I was entertaining this conversation was the first sign.

"Don't lie to me and tell me you haven't thought about it." The comment feels backhanded. As if it were wrong if the notion hadn't crossed my mind.

"I'm not going to discuss _'what I think about it'_ with you."

"No need to get defensive Johnny-boy. Just wanted to know if you were interested."

"I've said it before Chad, I have bigger things to focus on. Unlike you, I didn't just get my knee banged up."

"Well," he grunts rolling his shoulders, "If you're going to pass on her, I'm going for it. I know I can tap that. She's in my league."

"You're going to leave her out of this." I say it calm, cool, and collected. Maybe a little bite to it.

"Did I just hear a growl? That a threat John?" He's giving me that look, but the façade fails him and I see the corner of his mouth pulling into a hesitant grin.

I'm not sure when I started feeling defensive on the subject. No doubt there was something special between Elle and myself, and I had spent countless hours reflecting on it in silence. I wasn't about to let Whitney slander Elle in the crude context he had the tendency to lead our conversations in. She deserved to be respected, not reduced to the subject matter of placing bets.

"You tell me, Chad." We stare each other down for a good moment. The more I think about it, the more I feel like giving him a matching black eye.

There's an ominous jingle in the hallway. One that causes the hair to stand up on the back of my neck. Elle's returned with someone I've never seen before and waves cheerfully from the doorway.

"Mr. Whitney, I have a surprise for you!"

Chad starts laughing. Gets ready to punch my shoulder in play but thinks twice about it when I give him a warning look.

"Told you John. One step closer to pound-town." He winks and makes that clicking sound like you would to a horse to get them to move. Jakob walks back over and jots down the information from the machine into Chad's charts, then onto mine. Once we get our feet firmly on the ground and starting to cool down, Elle enters the PT room with the visitor in tow.

And a fucking dog.

The biggest GSD I have ever seen as a matter of fact.

He's on a short leash with the newcomer who must be the handler. Chad crouches down, kicks his bad leg out straight in a traditional runner's stretch and holds his hands out, giving a command in Czech. The dog sits, waiting to be released from his order and the handler drops the leash. And when Chad gives another command, the dogs trots right over to him, tail wagging and sniffing every square inch. Then the dog bolts back over to Elle.

"Isn't he just the cutest?!" Elle's voice has reached a whole new octave that fails to register on any sensor. She's crouched down and has her face in the black and tan German Shepherd's business end, getting slobbered all over by his tongue. I involuntary shudder at the act. Just another one of the many reason's dogs are dumb and disgusting.

"He's perfect. I can't thank you enough Elle." Chad's grinning ear to ear, clearly just as thrilled about the dog's presence. It's the happiest inflection I've heard from his usual hoarse uncanny accent. A complete paradigm shift from the cocky bastard I was just talking to a moment ago. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging too.

"He needs just as much help as you guys do around here. The kennel master said ever since he's lost his handler, he's just been moping around."

"A working dog needs a purpose. Otherwise they get fat, lazy and useless. Much like us guys."

"Speak for yourself Chad." I interject. I didn't deny he was right with what he was saying, but that dog could have stayed right where he was in the kennel. I didn't like where this situation was going. Elle's overcome with laughter when the mutt keeps licking her face, right across the her lips nonstop. Whitney calls the dog back over to his side, who's charmed Elle in tow.

"What's his name?" Chad asks, running his hands down the dog's back and over his haunches, a poof of hair taking flight and landing on the floor. Another reason dogs were a terrible idea. The two of them start fawning over him.

"The official documents have him listed as Wallace." The handler announces. He's a big guy but he's definitely not ex-military. Probably just one of the workers at the kennel.  
"But everyone's been calling him Wally."

"Wally? I think it's suiting. Smart, strong, sophisticated. What do you think John?"

Chad looks like a kid at Christmas who's gotten the puppy he's been pining after for months. I take another glance at the overgrown furry beast. For some reason the GSD stops paying attention to Chad and looks directly at me. Like he knows I'm passing judgement on him. Just stares at me with those big brown eyes like Chad is, seeking approval. Sophisticated was the last thing this mutt embodied. More like stupid. William Wallace was rolling in his grave somewhere.

"I don't think we can be friends anymore."

Chad's face is priceless. Elle and him both shoot me dirty death glares simultaneously. Clearly I'm out numbered and my honest opinion unwelcomed.

"John!" Elle scolds, hugging the shepherd tighter. Even when he sits he stands taller than Elle kneeled down.

"You'd understand where I was coming from if you were bit as many bloody times as I have." Chad seems to be petting Wallace defensively. Pouting even. As if my approval held weight somewhere in his book.

"I'm not talking about the neighborhood terror. I'm talking about military K9's like him." I find myself rubbing along my forearm, some of the punctured scars having left dimples in their wake. Wallace gives me a blank look. I don't think this dog was capable of harming a flea. The three of them are staring me down, and it's getting uncomfortable.

"Look, I don't need to justify myself to you, or you, and…" I look at Wallace, who's tail starts wagging ecstatically when he realizes I'm acknowledging him.  
"…especially you."

Wallace lets out an unexpected bark and whines, taking a two-step towards me. My whole body tenses up. I'm ready to punt this dog into the next life.

Chad whispers something, and Wallace approaches me. Tail wagging, big eyes pleading, his wet nose touching my calf. Puts all his weight against my legs, then throws himself on the ground, rolling on his back to get rubbed. Yeah, there was no way this dog could be a military K9. Disciplined, yes, but too big, and too goofy.

"John, he wants you to pet him." Elle croons, the cockles of her heart clearly melted by the antics of this dopey mutt.

"No." More whining from Wallace as he's looking at me, tongue lolling out the side of his face like an idiot. I don't negotiate with the terrorist dog's demands. Elle comes over and starts rubbing his belly to appease him.

"Well, you better to get used to him Johnny-boy. He's here to stay." Chad delivers with a smile.

Something in me snaps, and I'm about ready to lose my shit in there. It was like my worst nightmare was about to coming true. Not only was I trapped here, now it's with a dog, and not just any dog -but the breed I despise the most. No wonder Elle kept my pistol in lockup. I'm so frustrated I'm rendered speechless. My anxiety is through the fucking roof.

I start to say something to Chad, and I can't find the words. When I look to Elle, I get the same way. And Wally rolls back over and is up on his feet, sitting obediently still waiting for me to pet him.

"Nope. I'm done with this conversation." I'm checked out. This day went from bad to worse in less than 15 minutes.

"Oh, _John_." Elle says my name in the chiding way a parent does when trying to convince their child to do something they don't want to. She gives Wallace one last pet.

"His paperwork is all checked out and approved for transfer to Charles Whitney as his new official handler. Congratulations Mr. Whitney." The guy from the kennels hands the leather lead over to Chad and the contract is completed when they shake hands.

"Good luck with your new K9 partner."

* * *

 _Somewhere in Russia_

To an outsider, she appeared elegant in every sense of the word as she sat there, poised and seated at the head of the roundtable like a Roman statue about to be set in motion. To everyone who was acquainted with her, knew her otherwise as the Hydra.

"My lady," Yevgeny entered the large hall with a brisk curtsy. The dark haired woman lifted her green eyes from the maps she was pouring over in acknowledgement. She smiled when she saw him, tight lipped, but that was the best anyone had seen in weeks.

"Yevgeny. Come in." her voice was soft and purring like a kitten, but there was the sharp razor blade edge behind it. Yevgeny did as he was told, sweeping alongside the large chair and placing an affectionate kiss to her forehead.

"Please tell me Midas is on his way?" she asked.

"He's downstairs. Everyone is on their way up. Even Jericho."

"I have not seen his face in so long. Not since before…" her voice trailed off, reined in by a moment of sorrow. Yevgeny's hand found its way to her shoulders to give an encouraging rub.  
"Not since before I left Vladimir in Arabia with Jericho when we stopped by to visit the recruits. That was the last time I saw him."

"Makarov's still with us. You carry on his legacy Sofija. You do him proud."

"I want **them** dead." Her voice suddenly turned cold and hard like frozen steel, her nose upturned in the air.  
"I want that man brought to my feet. Alive. He will pay for what he has done."

"All in due time, my lady. Capricorn is infiltrating Western front lines and intercepting intel through known resources. She'll be your most direct route to the justice you seek."

"I do not like her." Sofija spat, sounding like a fussy child.

"You do not need to like me in order to trust me. Just let me do my job." Capricorn pushed her way through the door, followed in by another man.

"Capricorn, how _unfortunate_ for you to join us." Sofija complained, the sound similar to a raspy hiss.

"My lady." Capricorn gave a swift sharp bow before kicking a chair out from under the table with the kind of reckless powerful and fluidity only she could possess. She flopped in the chair with a heavy thud. The gentleman that had come in behind her was dark skinned with jet hair, tucking his sunglasses into the pocket of his heavy parka. Capricorn motioned to him to take the seat next to her before throwing her heels up on the table, mud and snow slipping dangerously onto the antique mahogany table top.

Yevgeny scowled at Capricorn silently, his face hidden from view of the Hydra. His _Zvezda_ sure knew how to tempt fate with their leader, who was already lacking the fondness for her. Even the best, most experienced goats could slip and fall from the thinnest of edges. Several more people filtered into the room and took their places at the round table. Yevgeny took his seat on the opposite side from his _Zvezda._

The Queen's Court was now in session.

Sofija cleared her throat, head held high, and let her eyes sweep across the room, being sure to make contact with everyone. She spoke slowly and clearly, her voice rolling like a building thunderstorm.

"I would like to extend my gratitude for everyone who is present here today. Your dedication to our cause does not go unnoticed."

There was a whispering acknowledgement from the group.

"First and foremost, I'd like to extend a special welcome to Jericho for his continued hard work in the Middle East, and stretching our circle of influence into northeast Africa. Would you care to share your latest information with everyone?"

The dark skinned man next to Capricorn sat up in his seat. He was a middle eastern decent, and one of the strong-willed youths from Khaled Al-Asad's original following. He had grown up under the founding of the Ultranationalist movement in his home country, and when the prominent leader had met his untimely death in the clutches of the 22nd S.A.S. operatives, it was Jericho who kept the idea alive and strong.

"Last meeting we had when I was present, I had managed to hold out at fifty three hundred strong. I've amassed our standing army to fifteen thousand in Serbia alone, another twenty eight hundred in Croatia, eight thousand in Turkey. There's an additional seventy seven thousand in Syria and Iraq. Additional two hundred thousand between Saudi and Iran. Another hundred thousand in Ukraine keeping the rebels on the move. Poland is backing the Ukrainian Rebels."

"I figured those Polacks would stay out of it. Finally found their spine I see. We'll send them a message from Russia when the time is right." Sofija announced.

"Jericho, I want you to make sure we have enough on the Western Front to roll them under when we make out move. Scratch that, I want them at the _top of the list_."  
Sofija scribbled a note on the map, marking several X's inside Poland's borders, while others around the table jotted the information down as well.  
"Speaking of the Western front. Capricorn, I've been eagerly awaiting good news from you."

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" Capricorn challenged with an equally snarky tone.

"Yes it has." Sofija growled in a low menace, her eyes narrowing on the old German.

"My team has successfully extra both torpedoes, intact, from the K-278 remains."

A rush of murmurs flowed through the room like a buzz of angry hornets. Even the Queen Hydra struggled to hide her look of surprise.

"We're entering Phase Two of the extraction. We're securing the coolant lines to minimize leakage, which would set off the sensor buoys in the area. We've already secured warheads from the K-219 wreckage, the _Kursk_ K-141, and stripped the reactor from _Kit_ K-159."

"What are we totaling?" A bearish man who sat offside of Yevgeny piped up. He fashioned himself as the Rook, a dealer of arms and managing the firepower resources of their movement worldwide.

"Two nukes were recovered from the K-278 wreckage and the reactor salvaged. One reactor from the _Kit_ K-159. K-8 yielded all four nukes. The _Kursk_ K-141 produced 22 Type 65 torpedoes, 10 were equipped with nuclear warheads three of them damaged but salvageable. Drake is with my team now still extracting munitions from the _Kursk_ wreckage. 31 nukes were recovered from the K-219 along with the reactor."

Rook's face looked blank, but he was too busy crunching the tonnage of power now at their fingertips.  
"47 nukes…"

"47 nukes, and some of those were unclassified. We're talking sizes that were too sensitive to even be written down for fear of the information getting out. Not including the salvaged firepower we'll be gaining from the reclaimed torpedoes." Capricorn finished. She swiveled in her chair to stare the room down, noting the speechless faces and slack jaws.

"You're welcome." Capricorn proclaimed harshly and sarcastically, falling back into her seat. Her work here was done. In her mind, she saw herself flipping the enormous table over and walking out of the grand hall like a boss.

The room was oddly silent except for the squeaking and squealing of several chairs as the heavy information settled in.

"You live up to your reputation Capricorn. Do you have any additional information to report from the Western Front?" Sofija pressed, her mood and inclination toward Capricorn clearly lifted.

"I'm still trying to dredge up the old hound. My one source indicates he might be in the UK under close watch. I'm working on a plan to draw him out of hiding and play him into our hands. Right now I'm closing in around his Achilles heel." Capricorn liked to keep her work vague. She rarely shared the details of her information with anyone unless it was pertinent to them in particular, or out of absolute necessity. Many age old secrets would follow her into the grave -from frivolous scandalous affairs to the most horrific undocumented war crimes of the century. Secrets that have only been uttered once before their source's life had been snuffed. Sometimes by her own hands, sometimes by another's.

"Midas?" Sofija arched a brow to the man sitting directly across from her at the round table with a laptop in front of him and a folder tucked along the side.

"How are our finances looking?"

"Well, we've had a productive siphon coming out of the East -specifically China, thanks to Mr. Yaridovich being the humble ambassador that he is." Midas nodded in Yevgeny's direction in acknowledgement.  
"After our next move, I expect it to put us over the nine figure mark. Enough to start a formidable mobilization by land and air, even by sea."

The conversations continued onward from there. The Fence was managing the oil pipelines. Delphi had a new launch in regards to Project Andromeda from the arctic regions. Yevgeny Yaridovich was getting cozy with the North Korean leaders and strengthening their alliances from age old Communist blood pacts.

Once the meeting of great minds and court was adjourned, Capricorn found herself occupying the great hall by herself. Imran Zahhaev had fashioned himself a luxurious building, modeling part of the interior after Bulgaria's Buzludzha monument that had long since fallen into decay. The great domed ceiling remained the centerpiece of attraction, bearing the Hammer and Sickle embellished with gold, black onyx, and some other precious red material to fill the rest. The entirety of the dome was done in red stained glass, which cast a soft crimson hue to the room at high noon when the outside arrays were pulled back.

" _Zvezda_."

Capricorn turned in the direction of the familiar nickname and the soft voiced marked by longing.

"Yevgeny." She replied, watching him saunter into the room and to her side.

"That's why she doesn't like you. You don't tell all of the truth." He started, giving his _Zvezda_ that wayward look as he struck up a cigarette.

"I'm not lying either though, am I? I supply just enough intel to keep the beast off my back." she volleyed with a laugh.  
"It's how I've always run my business Yevgeny. Making sure the right information doesn't get out at the wrong time. You know how I hate liars."

Yevgeny choked on a laugh.  
"You realize how ludicrous that statement was just now? Our whole industry is nothing but bluffs, secrets and lies."

"Bluffs and secrets, yes. But even the so-called lies bear truths to them. Part of my job is to sort them out." Capricorn leaned back on her arms against the ornate roundtable, tilting her head back to admire the ceiling.

"You do a remarkable job my _Zvezda._ Tell me, how was your visit to England?" There was a touch of malice in his words.

"Yevgeny, if you want to know if I slept with my informant you can just ask me outright. I bear no ill will towards you."

Yevgeny looked like he had been caught red handed, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as he regathered himself. Capricorn watched him take a long heavy drag, knocking the ash into an abandoned glass on the table. A long moment of silence passed between them.

"That's not what I was asking." He cowed.

"Then what were you asking?" she countered, loosening the trademark ring from her finger to crack the knuckle loose. Another long moment of silence passed, Capricorn patiently biding her tongue and time to see how he'd respond.

"Well, did you?"

"Hahaha, I knew it! I knew you couldn't resist asking. Oh Yevgeny, what am I to do with you?" she was laughing so hard she had the wipe the tears away from her lashes.

"My _Zvezda_ ," he sighed, his thoughts interrupted when Capricorn plucked the cigarette from his mouth and smothered it in the makeshift ashtray. She didn't need to repeat herself to him.  
"Whose side are you really on?"

The words were all business now. Yaridovich had a way of dancing and flitting between the boundaries or work and play. It was what made him dangerous. He knew how to get to people on a personable level and establish a trust. Lull you into believing he was your number one ally. Backed his words and promises with something tangible. But he couldn't draw the lines between his personal feelings and his job. And neither could she. It was the very reason her and Nikolai boomeranged their relationship so often, despite the dangers or the conflicts of interest. They were human after all. The only thing you could do was run damage control on yourself. You had to be your own best advocate, because in the spy industry, any day you could get burned.

Capricorn just smiled at him.

"All in good time Yevgeny. Just make sure for yourself, when the moment of reckoning does come -and it will- that you know what side of the glass you're on. Eventually, we answer for all our sins."

* * *

A/N: This great idea was born from a movie search I did this afternoon for _K-19 Widowmaker_. All of the K-#'s listed in Capricorn's speech are of actual USSR/ Russian nuclear subs that have sunk in real life. The K-278 caught my attention when it stated that it went down with two nuclear warheads intact and thought, "OMG -what a perfect plot idea!" And it went from there. I hope you enjoyed the story arch development here, and let some light in on the darkside.


	19. Big Sky Hunting

A/N: Part 2. This might actually be one of those "moments of reckoning." Something I think I can safely say, we've all been waiting for.

* * *

 **Ch 18: Big Sky Hunting**

Day 60, Tuesday February 14, 2017

I've never considered myself a whiner. Ever. It's a good way to get picked on when you're enlisted. But this dog business has me all bent out of shape. Its very presence makes my skin crawl and my anxiety on the high end. Honestly…I don't think Wallace was ever going to do anything towards me except beg for attention. But it's the principle. And sometimes, the principle is everything.

Elle is working my shoulders, and focusing back on my right hand. Plenty of conditioning and strengthening today, but getting into the finer mechanics of my injury -picking up a variety of objects, manipulating different items and so forth.

"Next one John. A little further" Elle encourages, studying the execution of the movement.  
"Now reverse the direction. Excellent."

I stretch out. Outside in the hallway, I hear the rhythmic bounce of a tennis ball and heavy breathing. I can't tell if it's Chad or his overweight hound. I watch Wallace trot past the doorway, the chartreus ball clamped in his maw, a string a drool dangling.

"I don't think I've ever seen you this upset before." Elle starts, watching me watching the mutt.

"Well, it's a long story Elle."

"I don't mean about Wally. I mean this silent brooding thing. It's not very characteristic of you. It's usually more of the angry outburst, with the cursing and the swearing." She says the last part with a sarcastic flare, mocking my accent. I'll give her that one, it sounds pretty good.

"That's the smile I'm used to. Look John, I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads up sooner, had I known…"  
There's a sigh, and she brushes the hair back away from her eyes.  
"I'm so sorry John. Mr. Whitney had those papers in around the time you arrived here. I kind of assumed the whole anti-dog act was just a front."

"Yeah, well, Chad kind of failed to mention he was a K9 handler for the Rangers. When he was talking about his partner _I assumed_ he was talking about another person. Not a dog."

"You know what they say about assuming." Elle starts the phrase, hands on her hips.

"Assuming makes an arse out of you and me."

"And boy, do we both feel like one right now." The way she says it manages to rouse a laugh out of me. Elle's always so down to earth, and not afraid to laugh at her own shortcomings.

"Speak for yourself Elle. I'm content with my vendetta."

"Against me, or against the dog?"

I look down at her. There might be an actual look of fear of disappointment in her eyes.

"I'll need time to figure that out. I mean, you _were_ the one who finalized the paperwork and let that beast in here after all. Wallace didn't have a choice in the matter. Kind of like me."

"Are you trying to guilt trip me?" Elle accuses, looking astonished.

"Maybe I am?" Normally, I never have the upper hand on Elle. For once, she seems genuinely moved by the fact I'm upset with something. Funny, it didn't seem to affect her much when I refuted her tormenting me in the past.

"Don't use those baby blues on me John."

"Can't help what I'm born with."

Elle stifles her giggle, covering her mouth with her hand, but it does little to hide the smile from reaching her eyes.  
"How about I try make it up to you John."

The words are foreboding, but not in a bad way. Or maybe it is in a bad way. _The good kind of bad._

"And how do you plan on bribing me?"

"It's not so much of a bribe, as it is an adventure."

"An adventure?"

"How do you feel about getting clearance and seeing a bit of the world outside these stone walls?"

I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. My life had been restricted to the courtyards and hallways of _Steinn Aflinn_ like a damn snow globe. I was pretty much capable of taking care of my basic needs, but was still under the close watch of Elle and her therapy regiment. Every aspect of my life was controlled and confined. At least this opportunity would still have me under her control, but a long enough leash to get a taste of freedom.

"Does it come at a high price?"

"Not as much as you think."

I weight my options carefully. I feel like there has to be a catch somewhere. Good things don't to happen to guys like me. They weren't just handed out -we had to earn everything the hard way. Elle's watching me closely as I weigh my options.

"I'll give you time to think about it if you'd like."

"What day were you thinking?" I don't want to wait to make a decision. Already the taste of freedom is on the wind, much like my first day in the courtyard when it was snowing out. It was invigorating, and for the briefest moment, I had forgotten about my situation.

"How does tomorrow evening sound?"

So soon? I didn't expect such a swift response.  
"Sounds like you've been planning this for a while."

"You learn to get creative during the winter months in Iceland. And I'm sure you're about sick of the same scenery around here. I'll get a few things in filled out for tomorrow."

* * *

Day 61, Wednesday February 15, 2017

Today feels almost unreal. There's still PT, but it's light and fun. I tolerate the mutt for Chad's sake, because he's a whole different person. He's still his usual asshole self but he's a lot happier. And Wallace, being the idiot that he is, is an instant chick magnet.

Elle trims up my hair with the clippers, which has become more of a non-regulation high and tight. Actually hands over the razor when I ask because I don't trust her around the highly managed beard I've been working on. I've been trying to keep it trimmed short enough where's it requires minimal maintenance but still allows me to achieve the look I want. Just because I was a shit show didn't mean I needed to look the part. There had been many times when the boys and I had plotted against Price's stache…

I spend the later afternoon hanging out with Chad and Wallace. As much as I hate dogs, I give the mutt the respect he deserves, begrudgingly of course. Even though he is what he is, he's still a veteran of the war, serving 6 years as a "Combat Engineer" -meaning he specialized in detecting IEDs, mines, clearing pathways for safe travels, and has the traditional Schutzhund protection. Also made the cut for tandem parachuting despite his grotesque size due to his excellent temperament -I can only speculate how big his previous handler had to be in order to carry him into combat zones. He's probably saved countless lives too from what Chad tells me on his background. Funny thing is, dogs don't ask for much in return.

Chad's brushing Wallace when suddenly he picks his head up, staring intently at the empty doorway.  
"Whatchya hear boy? Who's coming?" He says in a low excited whisper.

Wallace sits up, alert, ready to bolt into the hall. Suddenly, he didn't quite look the dopey mongrel he exuded. I recognize the voice and laughter belonging to Elle before she knocks at the door.

"Evening boys."

"Get her Wally." Chad releases the shepherd from work mode and into play. Just from the way he gets to his feet it's more relaxed than the silent tension he was displaying a moment ago. Wallace greets Elle as she comes through the doorway, to which she crouches down and starts rubbing her hands all through his coat. He flops his big head in her lap, hamming it up. No wonder he likes her, he's got his nose in her nether regions and gets away with it too.

"Hi Wally boy!" Elle praises, giving him equal amount of affection.  
"You boys all getting along?"

"Regular Kumbaya in here. I'm trying to desensitize Johnny-boy here to dogs. He still hasn't pet him yet."

"It'll be a while before we get there Chad. You should be grateful I've tolerate our mutual existence in the same room for as long as I have." 3 hours and 17 minutes to be exact. Wallace looks right at me when he hears my voice. He's been anxious for me to pet him almost as badly as Whitney has.

"Don't pay attention to him Wally," Elle starts cooing to the shepherd, scratching on the sides of his face,  
"He's just likes to act tough."

I do right by myself and hold my tongue. This wasn't exactly the kind of moment where you mention that you may, or may-not-have broken a dog's neck before as it was inches from tearing your throat out.

"Ready to get going John?"

"It's about time I buggered out of here. Chad, as always, it's been a pleasure." I extend my hand out for a shake, the Ranger returning the gesture in kind. Wallace, giving a whining bark, abandons Elle and shoves his way between Whitney and myself. Damn dog was jealous, and just looks at me, wanting to be pet.

"No." I point a finger at the mutt.

"Johnny-boy, it's been real. Maybe tomorrow I can get you to at least throw the ball for him."

"We'll see how I feel in the morning. Don't expect miracles overnight."

"I don't. Not out of you." Chad chuckles, giving Wallace a hard rub down that puts him into a submissive belly rub.

* * *

Approx 1700 hrs

Elle's gone all out for tonight. I get a new temporary ID, similar to that of a passport, but with a bunch of gibberish that basically says I'm a ward of _Steinn Aflinn_. I'm their physical property. I don't foresee any problems from the local population or authority here, but it's good to know if something were to happen, I have a "return to sender" addressed attached to me.

She changes into something beside her favorite style of grey scrubs. One of those heavy knit dress things, maroon colored, that you see girls wear with the black pant looking things. Leggings? Jeggings? Yoga pants? Whatever they were called. The kind us guys appreciate because it does little to hide the assets -but her dress covers down almost to her knees. Everything gets draped over by her bright blue parka that's lined by white fur.

And I get my first set of casual clothes. You get your basic attire much like the military supplies to you while you are at the hospital. For the lot of us who've been through the ringer, there would be no shame in carousing the public space in a ragged t-shirt with your last name stamped on the back and a decommissioned pair of ripped and stained BDU pants for the extra cargo space. There was a time and place for that. But when you're getting your first look at life outside the neat little bubble you've been trapped in, it doesn't hurt to make a good first impression. A new pair of lined denim jeans, heavy white long sleeve, the comfiest pair of socks I've had since I that time I stockpiled a bunch in Russia one year, and appropriately enough, a nice pair of black issued boots, most importantly -winter proof. It's all covered under a housing stipend the hospital has set up while they manage the sick and wounded. No doubt she did the sizing because it's all a decent fit. She's had the tendency to spoil me as far back as I can recall.

It feels strange standing in the main lobby and signing out in a ledger. Just like old times when we'd sign out of Hereford on liberty. It's almost surreal when we step out into the cold night air and I see the front façade of _Steinn Aflinn_ for the first time. It's a grand structure, spanning out a lot further than I had initially mapped. In the distance I see the slow blinking red aircraft warning lights of the two towers I remember from my first night out in the courtyard. I can make out civilization over the rolling hills by the faint halo of orange and yellowish light. There's no snowfall, no clouds, and the sky is sharp with stars.

I follow Elle through the parking lot to her car -a Jeep Wrangler Rubicon edition, obnoxiously blue. She laughs and tells me it makes it easier for her to find when the parking lot is full, and the four-wheel drive and high clearance are perfect for the crazy snowfall. I tease her about all the fluff and luxuries of her Jeep by comparison to the bare bones nature of combat vehicles. We're on the road for a while until the city comes into view. Elle calls it Reykjavík, the capitol city of Iceland. It's beautiful from the distance, and remarkable once inside. I realize how out touch I am with society, or with people in general. The hospital has been a controlled stable environment, with the usual staff coming and going. It's almost overwhelming now, between the all vehicles and the high volume of pedestrian traffic. But Elle sticks right by my side and navigates the city streets like a natural.

She takes me to a small place I would classify as a pub -almost a hole in the wall with low light, cozy atmosphere, and most importantly good food and drinks. Elle translates the menu and gives her best recommendations. And thanks to Elle's regular home cooking and leftovers, I've been acclimated to Iceland cuisine, it's not such a shock to the system.

Our conversation hits a different level. Maybe it's the change of environment, or maybe it's the influence of a little beer, but I never recall seeing Elle so relaxed and laughing like she is now. She's definitely in her element at the hospital, but out here I see her in a whole new way. I ask a little about her personal life -parents, home, what school was like for her and her high education in the pursuit of nursing. Her real name is "Elliot" Hallkelldóttir -and I get a whole lesson on surnames. She's got a younger brother by 2 years named Aron, both parents still around, and both grandparents on both sides. Family with a history rooted in agriculture, and her father being the trailbreaker as a vet that turned Elle towards the medical field. In turn she asks me about my own past -and not just my decorated military career that I pretense with the fact I'm still piecing it together. It's pretty complete at this point thanks to story time with Chad.

There wasn't much to my home life, or rather, not much I wanted to discuss about my home life with anyone for that fact, and Elle doesn't press it. Over the years, the military had become my new family, and the people in it far more interesting than what my tiny hometown in Scotland had to offer. She enjoys the stories about my service with the 22nd and One-Four-One, or moreover, the shenanigans. Like that time Roach thought using his service pistol was a good idea for putting a new hole in the barracks wall for the satellite TV. Or when Rocket, Driver and Marlin spent a whole week plotting to try to scare Ghost, and were successful when they discovered our most lethal member was afraid of snakes.

Before we head back to her vehicle, Elle stops by a small café shop of sorts and buys something that's served hot in a large bottle, and tells me the night out isn't quite finished yet. Dinner was just to hold us over for the main event, which leads us back towards _Steinn Aflinn_ , but down to a more isolated section of road that shrouds the city and its overwhelming lights behind the rolling horizon. When she places her vehicle in park overlooking a desolate black patch of land, I understand what this whole adventure was about.

"Isn't it gorgeous?"

Elle had a soft spot for star gazing. Living on a not-so-densely populated rock has its advantages -being able to enjoy the crisp clarity of viewing the night sky with little interference from society. I wasn't much for star gazing in the sense like Elle did, but there's something we share in common when I start listing off the visible constellations and specific star names. In the military, as much as the modern person would sluff off good old fashion celestial navigation, a solid working knowledge could prove to be invaluable when all your electronics went dark in the field. The subtle wobble of Polaris, azimuth and altitude, knowing your northern and southern hemispheres with their nuances. Elle brings her passion for the legends and mythology behind it, and I bring the practical usage. Her favorite constellation is Orion, with his iconic belt and ironically enough tag-along star Sirius, the dog constellation. Acclaimed hunter and once said to be the most handsome man that ever lived. A true romanticists dream.

When the window fogs over from all the conversation, she rolls down the window a touch and kicks on the defrosters, clearing the view. The select beverage she's brought along is hot cider, and after doing a little research, she discovered my affinity towards good bourbon.

"Today's the day I thought I'd never see. You actually allowing me have alcohol. Serving it even."

Elle's mixed up a simple cocktail I've never had. Cider wasn't my thing. I always went straight for the bottle, and the only thing I've ever served it with was ice.  
"Well, we're heading into week ten. I think it's cause for a little celebration."

The combination with a spicy spiked beverage served hot is enjoyable in a way I wouldn't have first thought. Kind of like starting your morning off with an Irish coffee.

"I could have used one of these back in December."

"The last thing you needed was to mix painkillers and booze."

"It's not booze, it's _bourbon_. It's in a whole different class." She didn't skimp on the quality either. Elle went straight for the top shelf.

"You are ridiculous John." Elle has her drink clutched to her chest and under nose, the steam warming up her face.  
"So, which one is your favorite?"

I take a tactical pause and really think her question over. Often, I was too distracted to think about the fun things in life, especially once I had made Captain. Caught up too much in my responsibilities and a world that was at war for far too long.

"Hm. Taurus."

"How suiting. Not everyone is so lucky to live in a place where they get to see their zodiac so often."

Mentioning the zodiac brings back a brief moment of tension when I think of the Stranger that fancied herself as Capricorn. The seagoat. And her existence and intentions almost as mysterious as the creation of the galaxy. I push the thought from my mind, because I wasn't about to let the old hag ruin one of the best nights I've had in a long time.

"Never thought of it that way. Which one's yours?"

"It's Virgo, but with the long day light hours during the spring and summer, you hardly get to see it."

"You never did tell me when your birthday is." I remind her, dating back to our conversation that almost felt like a lifetime ago.

"Well, you should be able to figure it out from here. You're smart enough, use your resources John."

"I never said I wasn't smart. I'm just being practical. Why waste the effort when you can get the information directly from the horse's mouth?"

Elle laughs, taking another sip from her drink before setting it on the dash.  
"You're so blunt."

"I don't believe in tip-toeing around the sensitive subjects. It's never been my style. I've dealt with too many fucking secrets that got a lot of good people in trouble, compared to if they just came outright and said what they fucking meant." I said it in the most matter of fact way, but the alcohol has a way of loosening the tongue.

"Tell me how you really feel John!" She's laughing again, her cheeks and nose pink between the cold and the bourbon.

"I'll tell you exactly how I feel. Ask away."

Elle's got that look in her eyes, and I know she wants to ask something inappropriate. Not that there was anything between us we probably hadn't already discussed, or any part of my physical being Elle hadn't violated in some way, shape, or form during my rehabilitation. Had I met her during my tours with the 141, she probably would have fit right in with the rest of the guys.

But it's not what she doesn't ask me. It's what she does next.

 ** _-A/N: [Because I've waited 42,105 words to get to this point -and that's about 90 pages]-_**

Elle leans in, but I couldn't tell you who made the first move. Because all I can think about, above anything else, is how amazing her mouth tastes. It's not just the hint of cinnamon and bourbon, or the sweetness of the apples. It's when she exhales, and I can't get enough of her scent. It's that familiar taste that hits me deep down inside that reminds me how _starving_ I really am.

When she pulls back, it's just enough so she can bite her lower lip to wet it before she goes back in for seconds. She's on her knees in the bucket seat, her hands around my shoulders and running up the back of my neck.

All I can hear is her breathing, and somewhere in between she's moaning my name. Someone's name. I honestly don't care at this point. I get that awful feeling, the one that leaves me feeling stupid and speechless with my mind focused only on one thing.

Elle breaks it off, coming up for air, her hot breath rising in the cold night.

"What do you think about that?"

Because I know it's all a set up. And I really don't care. I'd probably confess to just about to anything right now.

I study her face. I look into her big blue doe eyes with those sweeping dark lashes. The trembling bottom lip that's just begging to be bit. Because I know once this threshold is crossed, we were past the point of no return. This wasn't exactly the most opportune time for critical thinking, about what _this_ really meant. What _this_ could become between _us._ I'm one mouthful away from saying something stupid.

"I think…"

I can't concentrate when I watch the subtle flutter in her throat when she swallows, her teeth rolling back over her bottom lip.  
"I don't know what to think."

She whispers,  
"Then don't."

* * *

A/N: Mind. Blown. I can't believe I even just wrote all that. If you really want to set the mood, I suggest playing _Carnivàle_ 's _"Rita Sue and Jonesy"_ for the background.

I hope I did justice to this story, to this pairing, because it's not easy to get your readers to accept, or embrace OC's. Make it something believable, something tangible.

And yes, I really did word count the core story. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I did!


	20. Business, or Pleasure?

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the hiatus. Work has had me swamped, but I also got a puppy, who is turning my world upside down! You can blame her for the lack of steady updates, since most of my time is dedicated to retrieving my personal items from her teeth.

Again, I apologize for the long delay. It took a bit to get back into the swing, but it hasn't stopped me from brainstorming up the wahzoo. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Ch 19: Business, or Pleasure?**

"I never liked the smell of this city." Yevgeny complained, glancing from behind the shades. Outside the noon lighting did little to compliment the concrete city in all its ragged splendor. It reminded him too much of the poor desolated parts of his home country. Empty husks. Ugly reminders of broken promises. He let the shades fall back into place, stepping away from the windows.

"We won't be here long. Cassy will be here with Rook this evening. I foresee tomorrow going smoothly. We'll by wheels up by late noon." The Hydra said matter of fact.

"Late noon? That sounds rather ambitious of you." Yevgeny hated staying somewhere longer than absolutely necessary, especially when the risks were so high. When Makarov was alive, he had made great efforts to rally Ultranationalists around the world to his cause. Not everyone agreed though. That's why they were here today.

They were in Pyongyang, North Korea and hours away from meeting with the temperamental leader Kung Lin. Makarov had reached out to him before for support under Zakhaev's rule, attempting to rekindle the old Communist blood ties. Yevgeny had posed as his ambassador, and short of working miracles, had bridged the long silent gap between the two countries. Hands shook. Monies exchanged. Still circling each other like wary dogs, but it had been a start. Progress had been slow and steady since then. Makarov had spearheaded his uprising with Korea backing his forces in the shadows, Yevgeny steading in his place and monitoring progress.

Today was different though, as Sofija was offering something a bit more on the table this time in hopes to entice Kung Lin into a stronger partnership. Regardless of the outcome of today's events though, the dictator's decision was already made for him. He just didn't know it yet.

By evening their counter parts arrived in Pyongyang on time, and took up residence on the opposite side of the city. You could never be too careful about pooling all of your resources in one location. Morning broke over the city in a murky fog, drowning the city in a combination of humidity and pollution. By 0800hrs sharp a black suburban was waiting for them downstairs. After a very convoluted car ride, Sofija and Yevgenvy stepped out onto the grand steps of the presumable official residence of North Korea's leader. From behind Cassy and Rook were exiting a second black SUV that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Without so much a word they were brought inside a luxurious solar study where Kung Lin was already kneeling at the head of a polished black table. Sofija was the first to be directed to the closest seat to the young dictator not before giving a respectable bow, followed by Rook, Cassy, and Yevgeny last. He didn't take it personal -he was only a low man on the pole as far as Kung Lin was concerned. The dictator was right to be distrustful of him.

"It is with great honor to share in your presence, great leader Kung Lin." Sofija opened the conversation, her voice an exquisite balance that was hard as lightning, yet soft as candlelight.

"Miss Pavković, you have my condolences on the execution of Makarov. I was informed you were his devout supporter, and consort." Yevgeny watched Sofija stiffen at the remark.

It was no secret that the Hydra and Makarov were the Russian equivalent to the famed American Bonnie and Clyde. But what no one knew was that Makarov never acknowledged their relationship- it was almost as if it were expected of her, the king taking his rightful lion's share of Sofija's devotion. Paid for by the pound of flesh. Vladimir had used her to further execute his will, manipulating and molding Sofija into the extremist Hydra. All he had to do was whisper sweet nothings in her ear, words that held no weight, but the gravity of them was unmatched. She would kill for him, she would die for him. Never question his authority, or his motives. With no guiding hand, the Hydra was a wroth beast lacking focus. Revenge, fuel by reckless enthusiasm, was simply directing her to blindly lash out. Had it not been for his own influence over Sofija, they wouldn't have gotten this far in their mobilization.

"Your excellence Kung Lin," Sofija said in that oh-so-disarming way, bearing her teeth in a cordial pensive smile, her chin tilted up in an air of refined arrogance. The face of a grinning dragon before it swallowed its next meal.

"I was initiator and purveyor of Vladimir's chemical attacks used in Operation Cloak and Dagger. Without me, he wouldn't have had such a successful attack. And Vladimir wasn't executed. He was assassinated, in a coordinated attack by the enemy. A mutual enemy to the both of us I might add."

The steely bite in her tone caught the leader by surprise. It was not every day someone spoke back to him, more or less down to him, like the Hydra just had. One of his lackeys entered the study bearing a tray with one of the finest brewed teas there was to offer in the world. Small antique cups were placed in front of each of the leader's guests, and the beverage dispensed in a hard silence.

"And Despite Makarov's best efforts, his rebellion was still silenced. And now you come running to me with your tail between your legs. What makes you think you're so different?" It was a valid question. When you're a successful dictator of a whole country, you earn you're right to be an insensitive asshole.

"I'd like to remind you, Vladimir was able to bring the world to its knees, and launch a full scale attack on United States soil with no other standing armies other than what he was able to acquire when he coup'ed the Russian government. He fought against forces on our own home soil, half of Europe, and overseas. Right now all their militaries are exhausted and they're struggling to rebuild their countries. Now is the opportune time to attack."

Kung Lin folded his hands on the table and took a steadied breath, surveying the whole crowd before returning his gaze to the Hydra. Hydra motioned to Cassy to present her supporting documentation. A black leather bound file folder was passed forward. Sofija pulled a few documents from the folder and passed them forward to Kung Lin.

"My team has been working double time to amass our resources. Over 600,000 troops in various border countries, surplus munitions and ground units mobile. We've already secured aircraft and are awaiting to establish naval capabilities. But I cannot offer you what you already have. Instead, I'm presenting you this."

Sofija handed off another packet of information. Yevgeny noted the subtle lift of the dictator's brow as he glanced through the top pages with interest. He studied the information in silence.

"Impressive on paper." Kung Lin noted, studying a schematic diagram,

"But this is as useful to me as the malarkey you spew."

"Project Andromeda is operational and awaiting power cell supplies. Thanks to the fine work of my men, we've had successful supply launches for the past 7 months uninterrupted. Cassy, our engineer is overseeing the development of our latest hybrid weapon, which you can find on page 34. As for the Pelagics, the, _Svetovid_ 's been running deep and silent for 2 years, with one year free of incidents. Her sister the _Morana_ , is currently undergoing a battery of exercises for launch capabilities."

Kung Lin studied a few more pages closer, falling on one page in particular.

"And this?"

The Hydra rest her elbows on the table and leaned in closer, unable to suppress the sly grin.

"Oh, that? That's the _Event Horizon_ …"

* * *

 ** _Several hours later…_**

"I told you we'd be wheels up by noon, Yaridovich." Sofija snapped, her head held high when she threw a languid look over her shoulder at Yevgeny. The glare bounced clean off of him as he took a last drag on his cigarette. A hot wind whipped across the tarmac like a wet slap in the face, standing as a reminder of how much he despised this place.

"It was a rather magnificent display of power my lady. And control. Kung Lin is not easily swayed."

"And you'll make sure he stays on our side, now won't you?"

"Just speak the word, and it'll be done." Like a hound standing in the slips. Yevgeny wasn't only her informant, he was a man of action, the silent sleight of hand.

"Not yet. I want to see how far Kung Lin will go before I require his _**full**_ cooperation. If you suspect he's about to cross us, I want to be the second one to know."

"The second?" Yevgeny's brow creased in slight concern.

"Yes, the second. Because I want your man on the inside to be the first. Just tell me when the deed is done. Let's go, we have much to do."

* * *

Morning is an absolute daze. I'm stuck in this surreal feeling. Last night keeps playing in my mind. Over and over. As the clock in my room moves closer to 0600, and the hospital begins to stir with foot traffic, I find myself out of bed and pacing the windows in my room. I'm anxious. Even more so when Elle doesn't come in, an I'm greeted by Naomi instead.

The gravity of it doesn't quit sink in until I'm paired up with Whitney for PT. I should have known he was up to something, because he was oddly quiet all morning. Just after our lunch break Chad strikes up the conversation, which is anything but subtle.

"John?" He looks serious. Sounds serious. Concerned.  
"What the hell did you do to Miss Elle?"

It's the mention of Elle's name that snaps me out of it.  
"What are you talking about?"

Because I was thinking of doing a lot terrible of things to her that I didn't do, before he interrupted my thoughts.

"You take a fucking belt sander to her face?" I'm struggling to grasp what the hell he just said to me, because it's not registering. I hadn't seen her all morning.

"No. What the hell are you talking about Chad?"

"Nothing." He throws his hands up, like he's claiming innocence, backing up a little. I know he's mocking me. As expected though, the real Chad shines through, in a burst of brilliant enthusiasm.  
"Fucking savage man!"

Yep. Another punch. Right in the goddamn same shoulder that got him in trouble in the first place.

"Oy, you fuck." The pain is a blinding shock. Kind of like when you stub your toe and all you want to do is destroy that object that inflicted pain on you. Today that object's name happens to be Chad Whitney. He's going to get that matching black eye a lot sooner that I first thought. Until I remember there's 90+ lbs of over watch laying in the corner of the room, observing our exchange with much anticipation. I shake it out, and Chad apologizes, because he knows he's gone too far with his rough housing shit.

"Was that really necessary?" because I felt it all the way down through my numb fingertips.

"You better divulge the details or you'll be getting another."

"I don't have to tell you shit."

Chad winds up for another and feigns an attack. He's like that antagonizing little brother you can't shake. Except he's older than me and should know better. Jakob and Anna look ready to drop everything they're doing to break up the potential fist fight about to explode in the PT room. Chad backs down, because he knows when I come after him, it'll be for blood. He wades back into the conversation calmly.

"You two came in late last night. She left even _later._ "

"Since when is it your business?"

"Listen you ornery motherfucker! I know all, and see all. I had to make up double time on those Cavalry girls in your absence. You owe me answers."

"I don't owe you anything."

"Tell me John, how tight was that shit?"

The words actually manifest itself as a physical pain. This man physically pains me. I take a long pause to collect myself, trying to figure out how to head this conversation off before it got way out of hand.

"Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you." Not that I hadn't been fantasizing about it all morning and afternoon. Every guy tells 'war stories' from the behind the lines. Some always felt the need to brag in order to help project the image they wanted, and build a reputation. I preferred the more modest approach. Actions speak louder than words. And gossip spreads like wildfire.

"Sooooo…no boom-boom?"

I shoot him the most flat, indifferent stare.

"No."

I watch Chad lean back on his heels in deep contemplation. Arms folded over his chest, a thumb and forefinger fidgeting under his chin. It's a long moment before he speaks.

"John…" His words are slow and solemn, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.  
"You have not only disappointed me, but all the male species as well. What the fuck's wrong with you?!"

"Nothing." I'm not mentally engaged for battle, but there's a whole lot of pent up hostility I was more than ready to unleash in a good brawl if it meant the end to Whitney's incessant nagging.

"I just can't comprehend how the world's most bad ass motherfucker, turns down an all-you-can-eat pass at some premium pussy. Like, quite literally."

"I don't know what to tell you Chad. Shit happens." The nonchalant shrug of my shoulders causes his brow to twitch in frustration. I have no excuse to give him that would suffice his curiosity. Whitney can't seem to let it go.

"Shit - **did not happen** \- is what the problem is Johnny-boy. Unless…."

And there those little wheels in his head go, turning 10,000 RPMs as he concocts some abstract, highly detailed account of an incident that never actually happened.  
"Don't even go there, Chad." I give him fair warning.

"Unless you done fucked up and aren't man enough to own up to it. You sure you even like girls?"

"As much as any man worth his salt. Where'd you even see Elle this morning?" I try to shift the subject to something less intrusive and vulgar. I wanted to keep the details of last night's sortie under the radar until I had time to actually sort out what had happened between us. Elle had been so sure of herself, and I was the one standing around twiddling my thumbs.

"She hasn't been by to see you yet? Oh you must have really done it in!"

I had noted Elle's absence as suspicious. Yet, despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise, I still felt slighted. Not that there was anything there between us. And I had no right to feel privy to her attention. But, I at least expected the professional courtesy of being told to "fuck off" if things had gone down that badly.

Maybe it was too much alcohol. Maybe she really meant no. Then again, she did have her tongue down….

"Shit, I'm just fucking with you. I only got a brief glance at her when I took Wally out to yard this morning. She was checking in at the front desk. That's when I noticed how jacked up her face was. And it ain't no blush either, it's full on road rash!"

I'm still a bit baffled by this apparent 'face-wrecking' that Chad keeps referring to, but I'll probably find out one way or another by the end of the day.  
"How'd she'd look?"

"Practically glowing. Had a smile on her face stretching from about here to here." He holds his arms out wide, almost as big as his own mischievous grin when he laughs.  
"You know, there's nothing sexier than a woman who's all hot n' heavy and ready to roll. I mean, if you can't perform under pressure, I'll gladly take the bullet for you Johnny-boy."

"You can piss up a rope."

"Don't be such a hostile prick."

"I wouldn't be if you quit badgering me."

" _No_ , you wouldn't be if you cashed in on your ticket to pound-town last night- Oh, afternoon Miss Elle!" Chad gives a quick bow of his head to someone over my shoulder.

For some reason, I felt a sharp ring down my spine at the mention of Elle's name. Before I could turn around, I feel her hand come to rest at the small of my back as she steps up along my side.

"Are you spreading rumors again, Mr. Whitney?" Elle takes the conversation in stride. I don't know how much of it she had heard, but you certainly can't say "pound-town" in a public area and not expect to turn a few heads.

"They're not rumors if they're true. I just enjoy seeing Johnny-boy getting all riled up. He's probably my favorite person to fuck with."

"Keep it up Mr. Whitney and I know he'll give you a run for your money." Elle turns her attention up at me.  
"Good afternoon John."

"Afternoon Elle." The words barely get out of my mouth without first catching the rough tone I had been using with Chad just moments ago. The looks she's giving me takes the edge right off, and all those confusing feelings from last night resurface. I also notice how red and irritated Elle's nose and chin appears.

"Which, speaking of running, I'd like to get you boys outside in the next couple of weeks and move you onto the track. I'm not fond of the idea of keeping you cooped up inside for so long. You're both coming along very nicely."

Her hand drifts away, making a purposeful brush along my backside on its descent. Smooth. Totally a guy's move. Somehow, I feel like I'm on the reverse end of this relationship.

"And I'd think it'd be a great way to burn off some of this excess energy. J.J.'s self-proclaimed himself as C-Wing's bookie."

"They bettin' on anything good?" Whitney asks, throwing a knowing glance to me before returning his eyes to Elle. I completely forgot Chad had said the boys had started a pool on what events were to transpire over the holiday. That's why the bastard was prying so hard for details.

"God knows how many pools he's running now. I know he's started some fantasy league sports stuff as well. I'm sure he'll let you get in on it if you ask nicely." Elle replies, tucking a few loose stands behind her ear. Her hair is in a messy braid similar to last night's.

"Then I'll have to make sure John and I swing by and touch bases. Sounds like they're having a lot of fun down there." Since when did I want to get involved in this shit? From what little I did know, there was a ledger book with my name in it and a pot of cash riding on the outcome.

"They're an unruly lot. That's why Rafney's in charge of them. I'm quite thankful for all of my boys down here. You're the ones who remind me why I come to work every day."

The asshole that Chad is, starts snickering that dirty was he does. I expect something terrible to come out of his mouth next.  
"Glad we can be a motivation, Miss Elle. I know you are to us." He flashes his big smile and winks. The Yank sure knows how to ham it up.

"Well, thank you! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a job to do. John, I'm having Jakob work with you this afternoon. Mr. Whitney, you'll be coming with me and Anna. Just let me gather a few things before we take off."

Elle rushes away towards Jakob and Anna, who've been quietly bantering back and forth throughout the day while overseeing our progress. I'm starting to get the feeling Elle's avoiding me, but her earlier gestures having me feeling otherwise. I'm just outright confused at this point.

"Got that John? Menage a tois!" Chad settles on elbowing me in the ribs.

"Keep dreaming Chad."

From the corner of my eye, I catch Elle, Anna, and Jakob making their approach. With one word Wally's up on his feet and heels to Whitney's side as Elle and Anna break away. As Chad gets swept off with Anna leading him, Elle hangs back for just one moment to smile at me before she disappears after them down the hall.

"Are you ready to work on those fine motor skills Mr. MacTavish?" Jakob asks. He's a good kid, and always in good spirits much like his mentor. It's been a while since we've had some one-on-one time. And it'll be a much appreciated break from Whitney's patronizing chatter.

"As ready as I'll get."

* * *

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed. It was a long chapter, but I kind of let the conversation free-style and meander. Had a lot going on here. Thanks again to all my readers!


	21. When You Play with Fire

A/N: Hey everyone, I apologize with the major hiatus. Work, _Destiny_ , and more all-consuming work killed my creative streak. I also rewrote this chapter like… ** _countless_** times. I scrapped, re-scrapped, obliterated, and started over more than I'd like to admit. Trying to follow up with _**Big Sky Hunting**_ was one of the hardest chapters to write, and decide what was the best course of action for our dear John.

With this hurtle out of the way, I hope to get this story re-rolling. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Ch 20: Play with Fire, Expect to get Burned**

Hindsight's always 20-20. I don't know if I _actually_ could've handled a one-on-one session with Elle just yet. The work environment was not the proper place to discuss personal matters.

Jakob's got me working on a combination of hand strength exercises and speed drills. It's one thing to get everything moving again. It's a whole different level to restore everything to working order with the speed and dexterity of a normal person. I felt good going into the situation until I started dropping everything halfway through. Today it was only small wooden blocks, coins, silverware, and a small weighted ball filled with sand. Another day it could very well be my sidearm on a draw, or a magazine on a reload. A knife when I needed it the most. There would be no way they'd ever let me back, not in this condition. And I wouldn't be able to blame them either.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. The angrier I get, the more frustrated I get. And the more frustrated I get, the more I lose focus and drop things.

In a lapse of my better, calmer, judgement, the box of miscellaneous items finds itself scattered across the floor of the small room.

Jakob scoffs out a mild chuckle.  
"You done for today John?"

"I was done forty minutes ago. What the hell did you expect?" I find myself snapping at him. It's not completely unjustified, but he knew that I had hit a wall at least thirty minutes ago and yet had insisted on continuing.

"Elle said you'd need a push today." Jakob's smiling, as if he knows something I don't.

"Did she now?" There's a bit of spite in my words. I don't know if Jakob picked up on that.

"She did. She said, and I quote, _'I need you to keep John focused today, he's got a lot going on in his mind.'_ "

"She would know that, wouldn't she?" I think it, but I mutter it out loud under my breath with a grudge.

"Elle's worried about you." He states, finishing out his assessment report on the clipboard.  
"She's afraid of letting you down."

The sincerity of the candid remark catches me off guard. I knew Elle and Jakob were close. No doubt she confided in him. But Elle seemed so confident. Like last night. There was no doubt, no apprehension, no fear. Jakob tucks his pen back in his shirt pocket and gets up to add the form to the growing stacks of papers in my personal file.

* * *

 _Later that evening… 2030hrs_

At this point the television was only background noise while I worked on my journal, or rather, decorated the pages. Sometimes after a rather arduous day of P.T., I didn't exactly feel like dedicating my remaining conscious to exploring the wreck that I dared called my mind. I had initially started off clocking in another chapter of _The Plague Dogs_ , but when I found myself rereading the same paragraph three times over, then stumbling through the fourth attempt, I closed the cover of one book an opened another.

I had opted to illustrate some of my daily entries. It not only provided a break from the focus I used to write legibly, but it utilized a completely different skill set that required dexterity.

And this evening's choice subject was an attempt to capture the fleeting burn from last night.

I'll admit, it wasn't my best work, but I felt confident that the likeness was there. It had been a while since I had dared to sketch a face -a portrait none the less- but over the course of the past few months I had been dabbling in quick drafts, then refined the images later. Tonight's high-strung frustration had manifested itself in a full page rendition.

I hold my journal up to take a moment to admire my own work. Normally I'd fuss over the details, but it's all there -a subtle smile, tussled curls, the spark in the eyes. And yet the same soft demeanor radiates like she's some sort of Virgin Mary.

"Hi John."

Elle's voice is collected. The excited chipper notes are reined in by self-control, but there's nothing that hides her smile. It pulls me back into the present world. I hate to admit it, but she's snuck up on me. She must be off duty because she's out of her usual grey scrubs and wearing casual attire. A cozy navy blue turtleneck, and black pants of some sort that hug her figure tight, the blue parka is draped over a forearm.

I clear my throat before I acknowledge her, closing my journal.  
"Elliot."

Elle balks, and suddenly her face is a few shades flushed. I can't say if it's from flattery or embarrassment.  
"No one's called me that in a long time. I told you that in confidence."

"And it still is. You don't like it?"

"I don't mind it." She's definitely flustered because she's avoiding eye contact now.  
"Only my family has ever called me by my full name. How was your session with Jakob today? I'm sorry I missed out."

"Frustrating. Though I'm sure you already knew that." She's quick to change topics.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Elle asks as she comes closer. She drags over one of the short-wheeled stools and takes a seat right next to me. Now that we're eye to eye, I get a real good look at the chafe Whitney had made a big deal about. The tip of her nose and chin are bright pink.

"You and Jakob are like this." I cross my fingers and hold it up in her face, reveling in the amused glare Elle gives me before swatting my hand away.

"And is there a problem with that?"

Of course there wasn't. I'm rather surprised she came by to make idle chit-chat, but I'm about to call her bluff and end the charade. I open up the delivery with a sigh as I contemplate my end objective.

"I just don't understand why you'd come all the way down here after your shift, to ask me about something you already know the answer to."

"Back to Mr. No-nonsense I see. Maybe I wanted to hear it from you directly."

"I told you I like to be straight forward."

"Do you?" She raises an eye brow with a smile I could describe only as mischievous.  
"Because you were rather coy last night."

 _Wow._

Out of left field, and a complete blindside. Pretty sure my jaw just went slack too. I feel a little spite, and a frustration of a _different kind_ getting the better of me.

"That's called self-restraint, Elle." I correct her. The words manage to come out in a tempered tone, thankfully.

I didn't need to be reminded of what I didn't do. Not only was I getting the backlash from Whitney, but apparently now Elle too. If anyone had the right to complain though, it should be her.

She leans in closer, and her laugh is playful. And suddenly I'm very aware of her knee pressed against my calf.  
"Is that what you call it?"

"Elle, we need to talk."

…

I try to gauge the expression on her face as the weight of my words sink in. She hardly seems phased, at first only responding with a full fledged smile as she stares back.

"What is there to talk about?"

She wets her lips. Giving me _that look_ again.

…

Because I'm too stupid to say no. And I got it bad. _So bad_.

It's full on déjà vu of last night.

Even the best of us have our less-than-proud moments. At the end of the day, all men are dogs, in one way or another. I'm not above taking whatever I can get. And for some reason, right now, I'm alright with that.

In the background, I hear her jacket slump to the floor. Feel her cold hands at the back of my neck. Any consciousness left in me completely flatlines. It's working on pure instinct at this point. But unlike last night, Elle's approach is slow and measured. _Languishing_. Being an outright tease, and I'm loving every minute of it. She's a sensational kisser. Goddamn, why does she taste so good?

Elle pulls away, just enough to touch noses and bat her blue eyes at me. Feel her small hands tugging at my jaw. And such a satisfied, content look on her face. There's so much I want to say to her, but another part of me is telling me to keep my mouth shut and go along for the ride.

"Elle," Through the daze I manage to find my voice and my bearings. I buy some time when I let her in for another kiss. It's guarded, but reassuring, the feelings are still there. The inferno's been staunched for now. The next hardest part would be keeping myself in line while I tried to defuse this situation. When you play with fire, expect to get burned.

"Yes, John?" Her thumbs drag along my jaw and through the stubble, but her eyes never leave mine.

"I don't know if there's any good way to say this," There's a slight brace in her posture. I'm mulling over my next choice of words, struggling to articulate my thoughts in a way she'll understand.

"If you start it off like that, then there's probably not. Tell me, what's on your mind." Despite my warning her voice is still supportive, optimistic, her smile still there.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing." Because I honestly don't. And she looks just as confused as I'm feeling right about now.  
"It's not like that. I… I don't know what you want."

Fuck if I knew what I even wanted.

"I know what I want." There's confidence in her tone. I'm just the dumb one who's turned a blind eye all along. Maybe I've always known it was there, and chose to ignore it.

"And what's the Elle?" I instantly regret asking. There's a knot in my gut that's telling me to back out. I knew what nice girls like Elle wanted from a man, and I wasn't kind to provide it.

"I want whatever feels right." Now she's holding my hand, her thumb brushing over the back of my knuckles. Just like she's always done. It's been there the whole damn time, right under my nose.

"What do you want John?"

I honestly didn't know. That's why we were stuck in this predicament. Relationships weren't something I invested a lot of my thoughts or time into, because for a little over the past 6 years, I never knew if there was going to be a tomorrow. It wasn't fair to people like Elle. It was the same reason I hardly spoke with my own family. Any day there could be an officer in his full dress uniform standing at the doorstep, trying to find the rights words to tell loved ones. I would know. I had done it too many times. This needed to end here.

"I don't do this kind of thing."

"This?" She asks with a suspicious lift of her eyebrow. Holds a searching stare. Elle contemplates my response in silence for what feel like forever. Then she snorts out a laugh of sorts.

"I don't care where this goes John. I'm not looking for any commitment, if that's what you're referring to."

Elle's high handed remark is an unexpected kick to the ego. She has both my hands in hers now, running her thumbs over the backs again as if to help soften the blow.

"I know how you military guys are. I know the routine. And I'm completely fine with that."

 _Well maybe I'm not.  
_ But the words never make their way out. Pride and fear have a way of doing that. Any other person would tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't question it. Count your blessings. Embrace the suck. _Carpe-fucking-diem_ as Whitney would put it.

I try to pass it off casually, like I actually agree with what I'm talking about.

"Good. We both know where we stand then."

But did we? Really?

"Yes we do." Elle agrees, a sly smile returning to her lips.  
"Now John, you need to promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I venture because I feel like I just dodged a bullet. But at what cost?

"Just shut up and let me enjoy the moment."

* * *

A/N: I apologize again! I hope you enjoyed!


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